


It’s the Great Pumpkin, Pollo!

by pied_pollo



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV), Hannibal (TV), Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: A Family That Slays Together Stays Together, Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Among Us, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Corner Table Boys, Crossover, Duolingo, Gapfills, Gen, Homicidal Thoughts, Intrusive Thoughts, Medical Inaccuracies, Minor Character Death, Shocking I know, Spoilers, That helicopter crash in 8x24, Whump, Whumptober 2020, all sorts of ghost mojo happening here, alternate universe - wild west, i only ever do tears and angst and sometimes death so this is scary okay, jumping in headfirst and screaming, the Bombing Incident (TM) that we only talk about in s1, too lazy to tag it all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:54:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 32
Words: 64,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26520088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pied_pollo/pseuds/pied_pollo
Summary: Whumptober 2020 prompt fills!
Comments: 294
Kudos: 124
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	1. Table of Contents

Wow. This was intimidating.

Hey there! Welcome to my first Whumptober!

* * *

_**No 1. LET’S HANG OUT SOMETIME - PRODIGAL SON**_

Waking Up Restrained | Shackled | **Hanging**

_”I’m willing to let go and trust myself” is not good advice for someone who literally needs to get a grip._

_**No 2. IN THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY - CRIMINAL MINDS**_

**“Pick Who Dies”** | Collars | **Kidnapped**

_Hotch and Spencer discuss tiredness, narcissists, and the lack of a blanket._

_(Spoilers for s02e15 “Revelations”)_

_**No 3. MY WAY OR THE HIGHWAY - PRODIGAL SON**_

Manhandled | Forced to their Knees | **Held at Gunpoint**

_In the year of our Lord 1890, the police team up with renowned detective Malcolm Bright to take down Claude Springer._

_( Spoilers for s01e01 “Pilot”)_

_**No 4. RUNNING OUT OF TIME - CRIMINAL MINDS**_

Caged | Buried Alive | **Collapsed Building**

_Adrian Bale has a hostage and a bomb. Gideon has to make a decision, and he doesn’t make the right one._

_(Spoilers for s01e01 “Extreme Aggressor” and s01e03 “Won’t Get Fooled Again”)  
_

_**No 5. WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU’RE GOING? - CRIMINAL MINDS**_

**On the Run** | Failed Escape | Rescue

_“‘A couple hours.’ A couple hours! You weren’t home until sunrise!”_

_In which Spencer and Henry run away from home._

_**No 6. PLEASE…. - PRODIGAL SON**_

“Get it Out” | No More | **“Stop, please”**

_Malcolm’s voicemail box is quite the thrill._

_**No 7. I’VE GOT YOU - PRODIGAL SON & CRIMINAL MINDS (SORT OF)**_

**Support** | Carrying | **Enemy to Caretaker**

_Writer’s block is a bitch. I have a few ideas to get your gears going again!_

_ (Spoilers for Criminal Minds s12) _

_**No 8. WHERE DID EVERYBODY GO? - PRODIGAL SON**_

**“Don’t Say Goodbye”** | Abandoned | **Isolation**

_Malcolm is sick. JT watches him. They make a break in a case._

_**No 9. FOR THE GREATER GOOD - CRIMINAL MINDS**_

“Take Me Instead” | “Run!” | **Ritual Sacrifice**

_Father. Son. Holy Spirit.  
And what was he?_

_(Spoilers for s02e15 “Revelations”, s04e03 “Minimal Loss”, and s14e01 “300”)_

_**No 10. THEY LOOK SO PRETTY WHEN THEY BLEED - CRIMINAL MINDS**_

Blood Loss | Internal Bleeding | **Trail of Blood**

_There’s a mole in the precinct on a case in Seattle. But they figure it out too late._

_**No 11. PSYCH 101 - CRIMINAL MINDS**_

**Defiance** | **Struggling** | **Crying**

_Spencer’s acting different, and it can’t just be about Tobias. Morgan calls someone who can help._

_(Spoilers for s1 and s2 events)_

_**No 12. I THINK I’VE BROKEN SOMETHING - CRIMINAL MINDS**_

**Broken Down** | **Broken Bones** | Broken Trust

_After a tough case, Luke and Matt take Spencer out for drinks. It doesn’t end well._

_(Spoilers for s08e12 “Zugzwang”)_

_**No 13. BREATHE IN, BREATHE OUT -** **CRIMINAL MINDS** _

Delayed Drowning | Chemical Pneumonia | **Oxygen Mask**

_What if Garcia hadn’t been there when Baylor had tried to administer the carbenicillin?_

_(Spoilers for s09e24 “Demons”)_

_**No 14. IS SOMETHING BURNING? - PRODIGAL SON**_

Branding | Heat Exhaustion | **Fire**

_Malcolm sets his apartment on fire—or does he?_

_**No 15. INTO THE UNKNOWN - PRODIGAL SON**_

**Possession** | Magical Healing | Science Gone Wrong

_Malcolm and the team get involved in some bad ghost mojo._

_**No 16. A TERRIBLE, HORRIBLE, NO GOOD, VERY BAD DAY - PRODIGAL SON**_

Forced to Beg | Hallucinations | **Shoot the Hostage**

_Vijay and Malcolm chase a suspect without backup and find themselves in a hostage situation._

_But ironically, it’s their captors who have a rough time._

_**No 17. I DID NOT SEE THAT COMING - CRIMINAL MINDS** _

Blackmail | Dirty Secret | **Wrongfully Accused**

_These quarantine games just get weirder and weirder_

_Vague but major spoilers for s12, s14, and s7_

_**No 18. PANIC! AT THE DISCO - CRIMINAL MINDS**_

**Panic Attacks** | Phobias | **Paranoia**

_No one could get in._

_(Spoilers for s12 and s14e05 “Luke”) _

_**  
No 19. BROKEN HEARTS - HANNIBAL**_

**Grief** | Mourning Loved One | Survivor’s Guilt

_Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance._

_(Spoilers for s3 events)_

_**No 20. TOTO, I HAVE A FEELING WE’RE NOT IN KANSAS ANYMORE - CRIMINAL MINDS**_

Lost | Field Medicine | **Medieval (Subbing: Wild West)**

_Spencer falls off a railing in urban Kansas City and lands on the ground of an old Western town called Orion—in 1890._

_ (Spoilers for s10e13 “Nelson’s Sparrow”) _

_**No 21. I DON’T FEEL SO WELL - PRODIGAL SON**_

Chronic Pain | **Hypothermia** | Infection

_Malcolm falls into a lake._

_**No 22. DO THESE TACOS TASTE FUNNY TO YOU? - CRIMINAL MINDS**_

**Poisoned** | Drugged | Withdrawal

_Genius and psychosis have a negative reaction._

_(Spoilers for s12)_

_**No 23. WHAT’S A WHUMPEE GOTTA DO TO GET SOME SLEEP AROUND HERE? - PRODIGAL SON**_

Exhaustion | Narcolepsy | **Sleep Deprivation**

_Malcolm hasn’t slept in a week, but the consequences aren’t all what they’re cracked up to be._

_**No 24. YOU’RE NOT MAKING ANY SENSE - CRIMINAL MINDS & PRODIGAL SON & HANNIBAL**_

Forced Mutism | **Blindfolded** | Sensory Deprivation

_Here are some out-of-context WIPS!_

_(INCLUDES THE ALTERNATE ENDINGS FOR #10)_

_**No 25. I THINK I’LL JUST COLLAPSE RIGHT HERE, THANKS - CRIMINAL MINDS**_

**Disorientation** | **Blurred Vision** | **Ringing Ears**

_That helicopter crash had so many possibilities._

_(Spoilers for s08e24 “The Replicator”)_

_**No 26. IF YOU THOUGHT THE HEAD TRAUMA WAS BAD… - CRIMINAL MINDS**_

Migraine | **Concussion** | Blindness

_Spencer goes undercover in an attempt to expose a human trafficking ring. It doesn’t go well._

_**No 27. OK, WHO HAD NATURAL DISASTERS ON THEIR 2020 BINGO CARD? - PRODIGAL SON**_

Earthquake | **Extreme Weather** | **Power Outage**

_A thunderstorm wipes out the power in NYC, but the weather isn’t the only thing Malcolm has to worry about._

_**No 28. SUCH WOW. MANY NORMAL. VERY OOPS. - CRIMINAL MINDS**_

Accidents | **Hunting Season** | Mugged

_There’s a boy or a man or a devil in our cabin. I hit him hard and hid him in the shed in the graveyard and hopefully no one finds out he’s there._

_(Spoilers for so2e15 “Revelations”)_

_**No 29. I THINK I NEED A DOCTOR - PRODIGAL SON & CRIMINAL MINDS**_

Intubation | **Emergency Room** | **Reluctant Bedrest**

_Malcolm gets attacked by the latest suspect, but unfortunately for him, she isn’t finished after he’s in the hospital._

_And even more, he isn’t the only one she’s after._

_**No 30. NOW WHERE DID THAT COME FROM? - CRIMINAL MINDS**_

Wound Reveal | **Ignoring an Injury** | Internal Organ Injury

_After the gunshot, nobody moved._

_(Spoilers for s08e12 “Zugzwang”)_

_**No 31. TODAY’S SPECIAL: TORTURE - PRODIGAL SON**_

**Experiment** | Whipped | Left for Dead

_He calls himself The Surgeon._


	2. Let’s Hang Out Sometime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m willing to let go and trust myself” is not the best advice for someone who literally needs to get a grip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: hanging

Here are the current events:

Malcolm Bright is tired.

Malcolm Bright is working a case.

Malcolm Bright is getting a phone call from his serial killer father.

Malcolm Bright is giving Gil gray hairs.

This would have been quite an ordinary day if not for the fact that Malcolm Bright is also dangling off the ledge of a three-story building.

(Hence the gray hairs.)

“Bright!” Gil shouts from the ground, but doesn’t know how to continue, because what the hell is he supposed to say? He decides on: “Stay where you are!”

“I don’t really have much of a choice!” Malcolm hollers back.

He’s gripping the ledge with both hands. On the rooftop, he can see Aidan Harlow bolting towards the fire escape, limping slightly from the tumble that landed Malcolm in this precarious situation. On the ground, there’s the noises of JT making his way towards the doors and Dani calling the fire department, but all of the up-and-down clamor is quickly drowned out when—

_Bzzz! Bzzz!_

—Malcolm’s phone, balancing on the ledge next to his hand, starts to ring again, and another fact quickly springs up in his mind:

Malcolm Bright is ghosting said serial killer father.

A regular person would continue to do so—actually, it is unlikely that a regular person would be in this situation to begin with. But unfortunately, Malcolm Bright does not exactly conform to the status quo.

“Hey, Siri!” he yells.

A ping. _Good morning!_

“Answer call!”

_Okay, here’s what I found on the web for—_

“Answer the phone call!”

_Sorry, I didn’t see a ‘Joan’ in your—_

“Call Martin Whitly!” His hands start to slip, and Malcolm struggles to readjust his grip. “Call. Martin. Whitly!”

_Calling Martin Whitly…_

And Martin Whitly picks up on the second ring. “ _It’s rude to ignore phone calls from your father,_ ” he pouts by way of greeting.

“Sorry,” Malcolm apologizes, “I’m in a bit of a situation.”

“ _What sort of ‘situation’ are we talking about?_ ” Martin asks skeptically.

“Um, you know…” Malcolm risks a glance down and tries not to imagine himself splattering onto the concrete below. “Just hanging out. With the team.” Another peek reveals a flower garden just to the right of the sidewalk. “Hey, Dad, how far can someone fall without dying?”

“ _I had a patient who dropped five stories and survived with only a broken—wait a minute, how far up are you?_ ”

“Three stories,” Malcolm admits weakly. His hands are sweating but surprisingly steady. It figures. “Chasing a suspect. Had a slip. And now I’m here! I should go. Thanks for the help!”

“ _Hold on! You need to—”_

“Siri, end call!”

The line goes dead. Malcolm tries to pull himself up and fails, bits of ledge showering to the ground below. Someone says something, but either they’re too quiet or Malcolm’s too caught up in the fact that he is about to plummet to his near-death...

 _...Near_ -death. 

_Near_ as in almost. _Near_ as in possible.

It’s as if Gil can see the cracked lightbulb that appears over his profiler’s head. “Don’t do it!” he warns.

Fact number five: Malcolm Bright is not good at listening to orders.

“I’m willing to let go and trust myself,” he mutters to himself. After a pause, he sighs, almost exasperated. “I need to buy a new deck of affirmations.”

“Bright, hold on!” Dani calls. “Fire department and EMTs are on the way!”

“Harlow’s getting away!” Malcolm shoots back. To himself, he contributes to chant: “I’m willing to let go and trust myself. I’m willing to let go and trust myself.” A beat. “I have a feeling that this is not the perspective to take on that phrase.”

“What phrase? What the hell are you gonna do?” JT demands.

“Don’t move!” Gil orders again.

Malcolm ignores them. “Three stories,” he breathes. “That shouldn’t hurt too much. Right? Well,” he adds dismally, “not if I’m unconscious. Or dead.”

“Just hold on!” 

“He’s slipping!” 

“I’ve got eyes on Harlow! He’s coming towards you!”

“Where’s the fire department?”

“Bright, wait!”

Malcolm squeezes his eyes shut, opens them, and promptly blurts out, “Dani!”

After a panicked, confused pause, Dani splutters out, “What is it?”

“I think I’m falling for you!”

Then he lets go, and few thoughts go through his mind as he hurtles to the ground:

One—he is not, in fact, willing to trust himself;

Two—the building is a little taller than three stories;

Three—that was a stupid pick-up line; and

Four—despite popular belief, neither hydrangea bushes nor Aidan Harlow make for good cushioning.

These are very normal thoughts during a very abnormal situation, but unfortunately for Malcolm, it’s a little late for second-guessing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Whumptober 1st!!
> 
> ...Sort of. I’m just putting this up because I’m probably not going to have time tomorrow, but still! Yayyy! Off to the races! This is probably going to be the shortest chapter of them all.
> 
> (Let me know if you’re doing Whumptober, too, so I can check it out when it’s published! Very excited to read all the wonderful whump in these fandoms.)


	3. In the Hands of the Enemy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hotch and Spencer discuss tiredness, narcissists, and the lack of a blanket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: pick who dies / kidnapping  
> Spoilers for s02e15 “Revelations”.

Normally, when a case was over, the jet was a nice place to be. Each member of the team could melt into a chair and put their head in their hands, feeling cozy as they basked in the warmth that was the sensation of being together without being close. Things would be calm, and things would be easy, and above all, things would be spinning to a stop.

Another offender caught.

Another town put at ease.

Fade to black.

This was not such a time.

The jet was completely silent as Gideon nudged Spencer onto the couch, giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze before taking his own seat. Almost immediately, Spencer curled into himself, turning his back to the others, tucking his bag in between his stomach and his knees. 

The others cast nervous glances at each other, unsure of what to do, to say. Hotch turned to Gideon, a silent question, and the latter brought his hand up once and brushed it across the air lightly, like he was conducting an orchestra, but there was no music save for the groan of a jet coming to life and the steady breaths of someone trying to go to sleep.

A silent melody with no harmony: Hotch lifted his eyebrows. _Do I do something?_

Gideon only stared back, his eyes quiet. The corner of his mouth twitched. _What can be done?_

What could be done, indeed? Hotch settled into his seat, deciding to watch the steady rise and fall of the curve of Spencer’s side, and the rest of the team leaned back as well.

Silence.

More silence.

Hotch shifted in his seat, uncharacteristically uncomfortable. He could start working on the case report, but something told him to wait. Unfortunately, all that left for him to do was watch his colleagues. The no-profiling rule hung in the air, but it seemed like that was all everyone was doing right now.

Across the aisle, JJ and Morgan glanced at each other, having their own silent conversation. She bit her lip, nodded once. He hesitated, then moved to sit next to her. _Everything forgiven._

On the other side, Emily took a sip of bitter coffee, before setting it to the side and half-reading a book. Her eyes darted over to Gideon on occasion. _She doesn’t trust him like the rest of us do._

Meanwhile, Garcia was squirming, not even bothering to hide her anxiety as her gaze and her thoughts jumped from Spencer to Hotch again. _She wants to hold him close, hold him together, and never let go. But she wants one of us to do it for her because she doesn’t want to break him._

A small, strangled noise brought Hotch out of his thoughts. Spencer’s head jerked up, and he twisted to groggily take in his surroundings. His gaze lingered on Hotch, before he settled back into the pillows and pulled his knees tighter to his chest.

The cry hadn’t gone unnoticed, however. After a moment of hesitation, Morgan was the first to speak.

“Hey, Pretty Boy,” he called quietly.

Spencer hummed.

“Can you look at me?” And Spencer did. Morgan flashed him a bright smile that quickly dissolved at the broken look in his friend’s eyes, but for his sake, he tried to keep his voice light. “There you are.” He swallowed. “It’s so good to see you again, man.”

“Th—” Spencer coughed, his voice hoarse. “Thanks.” And then he turned back to the wall.

Morgan’s half-smile dropped completely. He looked at Hotch. _Do something._

Hotch raised himself to his feet, moving slowly and wincing at the harsh crinkling of his chair. He took a few steps forward and sat on the other end of the couch before shooting his colleagues a desperate look. _Now what?_

 _Hell if I know,_ the responding eyes said.

Hotch put his hand on Spencer’s leg, and he jerked to a sitting position, mumbling something incoherent. Hotch waited for the disorientation to pass before bringing himself closer. “Reid?” That didn’t feel right. “Spencer?”

Spencer blinked at the floor, before dragging his gaze up to Hotch. “Hm?”

“How are you?” Hotch asked.

He expected a _good,_ a _fine,_ an _okay._ That was not unusual with Spencer.

But this time, he got a “Tired.”

Tired. Spencer was tired. It made sense, but there was something more to it, something about the way the simple syllables fell loosely from lax jaws that made Hotch swallow back an unknown emotion—and he realized that Spencer was right. His eyes were dark and dull, his hair was falling into his eyes, his shoulders were slumped. A neat bandage covered the row of stitches on his temple; a few stray marks scarred his face; an ice pack was stuffed and starting to condensate in his shoe. The hospital had done a good job of tucking in the corners of Spencer’s body, smoothing out the wrinkles Tobias had given him—nothing like the shaky, feral, bone-deep exhaustion everyone had witnessed in the graveyard.

So, yes. On the outside, Spencer was just that—tired.

But what about the inside?

“I’m sorry it took so long,” Hotch said.

“You found me,” Spencer mumbled. “Thank you.”

“We couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Or you.”

Hotch chewed the inside of his cheek. Spencer noticed.

“I didn’t mean it,” he continued, his words slightly slurred. “You’re not a narcissist, Hotch.”

“I know you didn’t mean it,” Hotch replied, a little too quickly.

Spencer glanced up, his expression soft. “They didn’t mean it either.”

“No one said anything.”

Spencer didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t bring it up. “Thank you again.”

“Thank you, too, Spencer.”

The jet rocked with light turbulence, and Hotch shivered at the sudden drop in temperature. He offered a blanket to Spencer, but he shook his head.

“You get cold easily,” Hotch noted. His companion didn’t react, just stared at the blanket. “Spencer.”

“I don’t want it,” Spencer murmured. “I just…” He swallowed, jaws working to force his thoughts out into the open. “I just want to feel...cold. It was...the cabin...I just want to feel the air again—this air—the _real_ air. Right now. It doesn’t make sense—”

Hotch silenced him with a hand on his shoulder. “Okay,” he soothed, “you don’t have to. You don’t have to worry about anything right now.” _Or anything ever again,_ he wanted to add, but with a sinking feeling, Hotch realized that he knew that this conversation would be repeated— _had_ been repeated—again, and judging by the look in Spencer’s eyes, the latter knew this, too.

So the last part went unmentioned. Instead, Spencer queried, “Did you believe it?”

“Believe what?” Hotch asked softly.

“What I said. To Tobias. Raphael, I mean.” Spencer wriggled to get comfortable, or maybe he was just worried about broaching the subject again. “I just want to know...I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry about,” Hotch soothed. “You did what you had to do to survive.”

“But I really didn’t mean it,” Spencer insisted, unable to hide the distressed crack in his voice. “I didn’t.”

“I know you didn’t. It’s okay.”

After a moment, Spencer melted back into the couch, his fingers clasping around something in his pants pocket. “Okay,” he decided, leaving back until his head was balanced on the arm of the couch. “Okay.” He still looked hesitant, though; the words on the tip of his tongue. When he spoke again, his voice was barely audible. “What now?”

“Now we go home,” Hotch said, keeping his voice quiet and slow, “and you can rest. You can take as long as you need.”

Spencer dropped his gaze. “I still feel...not real.”

“You’re real,” Hotch assured him. “And this is real. We got you out.”

“Then why am I still scared?” Spencer mused drowsily, almost to himself.

Hotch didn’t have an answer. Without thinking, he took Spencer’s hand and squeezed gently, trying to force his comfort to unscramble and somehow make their way into the other’s brain.

It seemed to work. Spencer squeezed back, the ghost of a smile tracing his lips.

No voices. No translation.

How to put comfort into words?

Maybe the squeeze was a _Thank you._

Maybe it was an _It’s going to be okay._

Maybe it was a _This is real_ or _You are real_ or _What we said_ _wasn’t real._

Maybe it was all of the above, or none of the above.

And maybe it was just a squeeze. Maybe it was just a connection; a bridge that linked the _then_ and the _now_ , pulling them together and letting them go, all at once.

So the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a final glow on the nicety of everything before disappearing, and Hotch released the grip and moved back to his chair, feeling simply _tired_ , but that was better than the fear before, and the soft music of the jet’s engine and Spencer’s steady breathing harmonized, then quieted, giving way to the very real air.

The jet was a nice place to be.

Calm. Easy.

Spinning to a stop.

Fade to black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and then Spencer goes home and does drugs and no one says anything about it and both he and the audience are sad forever and ever, the end.
> 
> I think #4 is going to be late. Sorry about that!! But luckily, I’ve got a few more done in advance. Thanks for reading!


	4. My Way or the Highway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the year of our Lord 1890, the police team up with renowned detective Malcolm Bright to take down Claude Springer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: held at gunpoint  
> Spoilers for s01e01 “Pilot”

“Our man must be in there!”

Though he spoke, the Detective Inspector didn’t believe that the man behind him was paying any attention. Malcolm Bright seemed fixated at the heavens; his head tilted upwards to observe the trees. After a moment of deep contemplation, he finally spoke.

“Outstanding,” he murmured, almost as if he was speaking to himself.

“Dear Lord,” one of the other officers muttered, “what is he on about?”

“The cicadas,” Bright explained, still gazing at the sky. “It’s their noise, you see—that little chirping is a guard, and it mimics that of the creature’s predators. Our killer feels safe when he hears it—a pity for him, and a good thing for us. We shall find him in no time.”

It was clear to all that the Inspector was growing impatient, and _had_ been impatient with this young man for the entirety of the investigation. “Detective Bright, sir,” he said, “Claude Springer is inside. We do believe there are innocent civilians trapped with him.”

“Tally-ho, then,” Bright decided merrily, as he finally dragged his gaze from the insects. “Let’s onwards, gents.”

And so they went, shuffling with their pistols drawn and eyes searching for Claude Springer, who had been terrorizing the country for weeks. Detective Bright had been called in to assist the case, and he did it well, though the Inspector had to admit that some of his methods were highly unusual—similar to that of the _Strand_ magazine’s hero, Sherlock Holmes.

Meanwhile, Bright was alone. Stealthily, he had broken off from the group, knowing well that the likelihood of Springer being in his own little shed was far greater than the chance of being caught in his fields. But upon stepping foot inside the squat building, he observed that Springer was nowhere to be seen.

Tentatively, Bright crossed the threshold and raised his pistol, but there was something off about the eeriness of it all, as if there was a looming presence lurking just behind him.

Too late, he realized that he was right. Before Bright could congratulate himself upon the discovery, something sharp and electric, much like a cattle prod, was rammed hard into his side, and Bright stumbled backwards, gasping for air.

Vaguely, he saw the blurry silhouette of a man—perhaps it was Claude Springer. But it was too difficult to make the connection; Bright’s consciousness was dwindling, and before he knew it, the detective was launched into a memory.

* * *

_“Father?” Bright asked of his father, when he was a slight boy of eleven. “Can I ask you something?”_

_“Pray, tell me,” his father, Dr. Martin Whitly, answered._

_A normal conversation in an abnormal situation: young Bright was in a prisoner’s facility, and Dr. Whitly was an inmate, held prisoner for the crime of murdering twenty-three innocent civilians with various, painful methods that took the phrase “medical malpractice” to an extreme._

_“Why did you murder those people?” Bright asked._

_Dr. Whitly seemed momentarily taken aback at the bluntness of his child, but he was able to regain his composure to answer. “I don’t believe I know,” he admitted, taking a step forward. “But...I’ve quite a lot of time to spare. Maybe we can solve the case. Together.”_

_“They call you a monster,” Bright said. “The others at school. Paper boys. Are you?”_

_“No,” Dr. Whitly assured him, quick to soothe his son, “no, my son. There are no such things as monsters.”_

_A mischievous smile spread across his face, but Bright did not see the menace behind it; rather, it only brought feelings of curiosity as opposed to fear or sadness. He agreed to spend his time with his father in the prison, though, unbeknownst to him, this was the beginning of a rather unusual upbringing._

* * *

Bright blinked unsteadily, struggling to orient himself. He did recall the cattle prod, and the Inspector, but the memory of his father dissolved, leaving him to lay supine on the floor of Springer’s cabin. And Springer himself had disappeared as if by magic.

Or that was, until Bright shifted on the ground and came face to-face with the barrels of a shotgun. Behind it, Claude Springer stood his ground, fury etched upon his features.

“My word, Claude, you gave me a fright!” Bright exclaimed.

“How did you find me?” Springer demanded.

“Which story do you wish me to tell? Perhaps one less lengthy?”

In response, the hammer of the shotgun was pulled back.

“Your victims,” Bright stammered, looking thoroughly spooked, “their skin was abnormally smooth. Untouched. Identical. I did concur that you selected them like a hog butcher; like a man brought up in a slaughterhouse.” He glanced around the cabin he was laying in. “You were sent here, when? When you were a mere boy; a ward of the state?” Upon Springer’s uneasy reaction, Bright knew that the target had indeed been hit. “This is where you were made,” he concluded.

These words were not what the killer had expected to hear. “Where I was _made?”_ Springer echoed.

“No one is born broken,” Bright explained. “Someone breaks us.”

He sounded as if he spoke from experience, which piqued Springer’s curiosity. “Pray, then, how so?” he asked earnestly.

“Put the gun down, sir,” Bright said, “and I will tell you all to know.”

Almost at once, Springer tossed the weapon to the side, but before either could speak again, it was the Inspector who thrust himself through the opening of the cabin, firing his gun. Claude Springer fell, dead, and Bright stumbled as a spray of warm blood showered his face.

“I have him! He’s hit!” the Inspector exclaimed triumphantly.

Bright was appalled. “He put it down!” he cried out in dismay, getting to his feet.

“No, he didn’t,” the Inspector replied.

Bright was not convinced. “You murdered him,” he said, his stricken gaze upon the fallen killer.

“Young man, your head is in a twist,” the Inspector chastised. He placed one hand upon Bright’s shoulder. “I saved your life, son. Be thankful to God you are still alive!”

But Bright was not thankful, rather, he pulled back his fist and landed a solid punch at the Inspector, who fell to the ground beside Springer, clutching at a broken nose. This suddenly violent action led the other officers to step back, their necks prickling with unease.

“I am _not_ your son,” Bright declared, breathing hard, and without another word, he stormed away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I...have no idea what this was. But it was incredibly fun.
> 
> There won’t be an update tomorrow as I finish the prompt, but I hoped you enjoyed whatever the hell that was! XD


	5. Running Out of Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adrian Bale has a hostage and a bomb. Gideon has to make a decision, and he doesn’t make the right one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: collapsed building  
> Spoilers for s01e01 “Extreme Aggressor” and s01e03 “Won’t Get Fooled Again”

All he saw was smoke.

The explosion had sent everyone flying; the building groaned and bits of rock showered to the ground. Gideon pushed himself off the concrete, his palms smarting, and took off towards the building, where inside, the smoke continued to spill into the street and flames danced across the windows.

Behind him, the others rushed to pull him away, but they were too far. Gideon kept running, covering his mouth in a vain attempt to stop the thick ash from flying into his nostrils and lungs.

“Gideon!” someone shouted, but whether they were inside or outside, Gideon didn’t know, and it didn’t even matter. All he could think of was that _he_ had made this call, and now, a hostage and six agents were trapped inside a smoldering building.

And the bomber was nowhere to be seen.

* * *

“Morgan! Reid!”

“Hotch!”

Morgan stumbled to his feet. “Hotch!” he called again. “I’m here! What the hell just happened?”

“Bale pressed the trigger,” Hotch hollered back, still invisible amongst the sea of law enforcement. “Where’s Reid and Gideon? Where did Bale go?”

Morgan coughed, trying to fill his lungs with air. “Where are _you?_ I can’t see anyone, man!”

“Gideon!”

Reid’s voice cut into the haze now. Morgan wiped grime from his eyes and threw a hand out, groping blindly and hoping to locate someone he knew. His fingers closed around fabric; the person he grabbed whipped around, ready to fight back, before relaxing as he recognized who had touched him.

“What went wrong?” Hotch asked, his face smeared with soot. “Has anyone called the fire department?”

“They were on standby; they’re already here,” Morgan replied breathlessly, nodding to the trucks that had started to flood in. “EMT’s are coming, too. How many were in there?”

Hotch shook his head. “I don’t know,” he admitted, uncharacteristically panicked. “Gideon sent Pollock, Riley, Quinn, Zhang, Edison—”

“Hotch,” Morgan interrupted.

The building Adrian Bale had taken his hostage in had previously been groaning; now, it was crumpling. Bits of brick showered to the floor with heavy clacks; a grimy plume rose from the collapsed scaffolding and bits of flame caught the dust, causing small tongues of flame to lick the air and float upwards.

“Hotch, we’ve got six agents in there,” Morgan realized softly.

Hotch just stared, mouth slightly parted, but his eyes reflected the cold dread that had trickled into Morgan’s own body. But before either of them could voice their fears, a loud shout cut them off.

“Gideon!”

“Shit,” Hotch blurted out, but before Morgan could be surprised, the former had taken off to where Reid was staggering towards the building, one hand shielding his eyes and the other shaking at his side, fumbling with the Velcro scrap on the side of his bulletproof vest.

Morgan ran after them, reaching them just as Hotch wrapped his arms around Reid and pulled him to his chest. The latter was frantic; twisting and flailing; ignorant to the fact that the person restraining him was benevolent.

“Stop!” Reid shouted, writhing to get out of the embrace. “Stop—get off! Get off!”

“It’s me!” Hotch yelled back, raising his voice above the other’s interjections. “It’s me! It’s Hotch! Reid, it’s just me!”

It didn’t help. “Gideon’s in there!” Reid screamed, his voice cracking on the syllables. He allowed himself to cough on the smoke before continuing. “Hotch, Gideon’s in there! We have to get him!”

“Calm down!” Hotch ordered, tucking Reid into his chest. “Calm down, we’ll get him! You can’t go in there!”

“We have to get him,” Reid insisted, but his voice was weaker, and after a moment of struggling, he turned around and threw himself onto Hotch, his entire body shaking with heaving breaths, his hair frazzled and plastered to his face with sweat and soot. It suddenly struck Morgan that despite being a genius, Reid was only twenty-three, and his gut twisted. What had he been doing at that age, not too long ago?

He was an officer for the CPD, transferring from the ninth to the fourteenth district. He was dating some girl and it didn’t last a year. He was thinking about applying to Quantico.

Whatever he had been doing, he sure as hell wasn’t caught in an explosion and fearing for the lives of his friends.

“We have to evacuate,” Reid continued, his voice muffled from where his face was pressed against Hotch’s shoulder. “F-First bomb. The second attack targets the responders. We have to go and we can’t—” He sucked in another breath. “—we can’t go in, but we have to get Gideon before—”

“Why the hell can’t we go in?” Morgan hissed, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. He turned to the EMTs, who looked as helpless as he felt. “ _Why can’t you do anything?_ ”

“Based on—” Reid started to say again, but Hotch quieted him.

Morgan didn’t say anything else—he couldn’t. Hotch turned Reid and pushed him to the crowd of evacuates before taking an uncertain step forward himself.

In moments, the clearing was empty. All that stood between them and Gideon was the building, where more chunks of rock tumbled to the sidewalk and cracked against the street. A car alarm rang shrill in the distance, but other than that, the sounds were softening as everyone backed away and the fire died down a little.

But then the screaming began.

* * *

“Bale!” Gideon shouted, pushing a block of stone out of the way as he stumbled into the remnants of the building. It looked nothing like the insurance company that had been standing moments ago, and if things were different, Gideon could have almost chuckled at the irony. “Bale! We made a deal!”

But there was no response. Gideon’s foot hit something—rather, some _one_ —but the body was too charred to be identified. Likely, this was the hostage. The thought made him feel sick.

“Bale!” Gideon yelled again, drawing his gun.

The last of the fire was uncomfortably hot against his open skin, and Gideon swiped a hand across his forehead to get rid of the soot sticking to his face. He scanned the room and moved into the next one, then the next one, checking body after body and finding no pulse.

There were no medics yet, and there wouldn’t be—Gideon himself told them not to storm in should this event occur. Likely, there would be a second bomb that could take out even more.

“Jason,” someone said, but it wasn’t Bale.

Gideon turned to the voice. “Agent Pollock!” he called. “James, I’m here, where are you?”

A thick cough. “Rubble,” James rasped.

Gideon forced his voice to keep steady. “Lots of rubble here, James. “Which room?”

“This room.”

Gideon glanced down. Barely visible, covered in soot, was Agent James Pollock. But as soon as he made the mental connection from name to face, James’s eyes slipped closed and his head lolled to the side.

“James, I’m here!” Gideon told him, loud as he dared, but James didn’t stir. “Pollock. _James.”_

“Ch’st hurts,” James mumbled. 

The fire’s intensity was starting to lessen some; rain was starting to extinguish the flames. Gideon pushed the layer of rubble off James and tore the Velcro straps from his vest.

“Stop,” James wheezed, squeezing his eyes against the pain. “Stop, stop, Jas’n...”

“I’m sorry,” Gideon apologized, tossing the Kevlar out of the way and scanning his bodies for injuries. “I’m sorry, James, I gotta make sure you’re not too hurt.”

He was hurt. _Very_ hurt, Gideon realized—now that the vest was gone, he could see the large pieces of shrapnel sticking out from his abdomen, like he had been impaled from behind. Bale’s bombs were also stuffed with nails; it was clear that James had taken the brunt of the explosion.

Without thinking, he pressed down on an oozing gash on James’s shoulder, and the latter let out a strangled scream before falling completely silent.

After, the building was eerily silent, eerily still save for the crackling hiss of the dying fire. A small trickle of rain leaked from a hole in the roof onto James’s face; Gideon wiped it away and fluttered his hands over his body, unsure of what to safely touch. Likely, the metal was staunching some of the blood flow itself, but it certainly wasn’t helping anything else.

“Sorry, James, you just gotta stay still,” Gideon said, though he wasn’t sure his friend could hear him. “Just stay with me.”

“Wow.”

Gideon whipped around, one hand tugging his gun free, to face Adrian Bale, coated in a layer of grime.

“He’s a goner,” Bale said.

“Step away,” Gideon ordered, holding his gun up. “Step away, now, Bale. It’s over.”

Bale didn’t move. “How long does he have?” He grinned. “Are you _really_ going to waste your time with me?”

Gideon risked a glance back down at James, who was ominously still despite the blood spreading across his entire upper body. There was an uneven pulse skipping and thudding against his carotid, and above, the rain was running clean tracks through the layer of soot on his face.

And there was still no medical assistance coming, at least until Bale was secured.

Shooting Bale now wouldn’t help anything, Gideon decided—at least, not for James. 

“He’s gonna live,” Gideon decided firmly, placing his gun protectively between his knees. “He’s gonna live.”

As if on cue, James stopped breathing.

* * *

Hotch pushed between Morgan and the building before the latter could jump forward. “We can’t do anything.”

“Are you serious, Hotch?” Morgan demanded, struggling to push past him. “Who was that? Our guys are in there— _Gideon’s_ in there! You just wanna stand around and do nothing?”

“We _can’t_ do anything,” Hotch reminded him gently. “It’s too great a risk.”

“Fuck the risk! I can’t listen to them die!”

“Getting caught in another explosion won’t help anyone,” Hotch urged him. “We have to let Gideon—”

“ _Gideon could be dead now!”_ Morgan shot back.

Hotch paused, his mouth set. “It’s not a conversation. I can’t let you go in there.”

Morgan returned the stare, anger bubbling and spilling behind his eyes. “I can see Edison’s body from here,” he tried, lowering his voice to something just above a cracked whisper. “We can’t lose him too.” Desperately, he added, “He’s our friend, Hotch.”

Hotch darted his eyes from behind Morgan to behind himself, clearly conflicted. In the distance, the last of the flames were sputtered out as the light shower of rain fell harder, turning to a moderate downpour.

After a moment, he let go of Morgan and turned towards the collapsed building.

* * *

Keeping one eye on his gun at all times, Gideon bent over and crossed his hands over James’s chest, pumping hard. He could feel Bale’s gaze behind him, sickeningly curious, but all his attention was focused on the dying man in front of him.

“Gideon!”

“In here! Bale’s here!” Gideon shouted back, continuing compressions. “I need a medic now!”

“They can’t do that!” Morgan shouted back, his voice coming closer. “We need Bale!”

“He’s here!”

Hotch and Morgan hurried into what was left of the room and hopped over the slabs of concrete that had tumbled around them. Without a word, Bale turned to face them, extending his wrists, and Morgan pulled his arms behind his back with an angry, “Let’s go. Let’s go!”

Hotch dropped next to Gideon. “Bomb tech’s on the way,” he said. “Tell me what I can do.”

“Nothing, there’s nothing,” Gideon said hurriedly, hyper focused on James. His ribs were bending under his weight, but he kept going. With a nauseatingly thick sound, the metal in James’s abdomen started to move, bobbing in time with the CPR.

Hotch stood up then, waving over the bomb squad, and Gideon continued to press down and up—once, twice, thirty times—giving compressions without breaths that became desperate and uncoordinated at intervals, but he kept going.

Six. Twelve. Eighteen. Thirty.

He checked a pulse and found nothing.

He started again.

“Jason,” Hotch said quietly.

James’s blood was covering his hands and his eyes were open and blank, staring up at but not seeing the gathering thunderclouds. Rain pooled in the dip in his collarbone and Gideon kept pumping.

“Jason,” Hotch murmured again, putting a hand on his bicep. “Jason, let go.”

“Can’t do that,” Gideon replied, his voice clipped with panic. “Where are the medics?”

“The building has to be cleared,” Hotch explained.

“Get someone over now.”

“I can’t do that.”

Gideon put his entire weight into his hands, and he felt something crack beneath his ribs. James’s body jostled with each compression, and the blood stained Gideon’s shirt sleeves, and it was uncomfortably tepid now, but he kept going.

A gloved hand rested on his shoulder. “Sir.”

“Jason,” Hotch added, wrapping an arm around his chest. “You have to move. He’s gone.”

“He’s not gone, Aaron,” Gideon whispered, throwing his entire body into the compressions.

“Sir, we need you to move!”

“Jason.”

Gideon glanced up, his eyes swimming with sweat or tears, and Hotch just nodded. Together they’d stood up, and Gideon ran a blood-soaked hand through his hair.

“Try the paddles,” he mumbled, “try the—something, just do something.”

“No pulse,” the first EMT said to the other.

Whatever happened after that was blank. All Gideon could think of were James’s open eyes, the smoke, the rain, the blood on his hands, and the fact that seven people were dead because of him.

Seven people. 

Were any of them alive while Gideon was trying to resuscitate a corpse?

Above, thunder rippled through the clouds. Hotch took Gideon by the shoulders and steered him away, and it was only then that the latter finally let his throat choke out a sob.

“He has a wife named Bee and she’s pregnant,” he whispered. “Who’s gonna…”

“Don’t think about it,” Hotch murmured, leading them both to a bench. “Are you hurt?”

Gideon shook his head, eyes fixed on his hands; on the blood that was starting to dry and crack on his palms. “I couldn’t...I thought he wouldn’t…”

“Neither did I,” Hotch replied. “But we got him.”

Gideon glanced back up. “Does that even matter anymore?” he asked, voice detached. “Seven people, they—seven people died because I thought it was over. I should have known he wouldn’t take the deal.”

“None of us knew.”

“Why not? Why didn’t we know?”

Hotch just shook his head, glancing at the ambulance pulling away without sirens. “I don’t know.”

“We should have known.”

“We couldn’t have,” Hotch started to say, then paused, then just sighed—could they have?. After a moment, he just leaned against the back of the bench and tilted his head up, letting the rain wash the soot and blood from his face.

More thunder. Gideon stood up and walked back to the surveillance stand.

The beginning of the end.

* * *

Reid didn’t know what was happening, and it scared him.

He was used to being in the precinct. He was used to staying behind and working on a geographical profile. The field was unpredictable and he hated it.

Someone jostled him from behind, and another person ran by before getting lost in the crowd. If the sidewalk had been quiet before, it wasn’t anymore; news trucks pulled into the street and a siren went off as more police cars rolled by.

He didn’t know where he was or where he was supposed to be. People were everywhere, lights were everywhere, the sounds were too loud and the explosion was still playing in his head.

They made a deal. Why didn’t Bale take it?

And where was everybody?

“Reid! I’m looking for Special Agent Dr. Spencer Reid!”

 _Special Agent Dr. Spencer Reid_. The title still felt like it didn’t fit; like it was too big on him, but Reid was able to recognize Morgan’s voice and he stumbled towards it. Someone checked his shoulder and it threw him off balance; another person cried out at the sight of the building; a third person tapped him on the shoulder and asked if he knew anything about what the FBI was doing to handle this. His vest felt too tight and his shoes felt too big and all he could do was clap his hands over his ears and try not to cry.

“Reid! Hey!”

Morgan’s arms were around him now, pulling him away from the crowds and back to the surveillance table. Reid slowly let go of the vice he had on either side of his head and let himself be led to Hotch and Gideon.

Gideon.

He was alive.

Reid quickened his pace, ignoring the worried protest coming from Morgan, and stumbled to Gideon, his chest heaving with a cold rush of relief. Hotch, Morgan, Gideon—the team was okay.

But there were no other agents. None of the team Gideon sent in was among the crowds. The relief was quickly replaced by dread, and Reid choked out, “What happened to everyone?”

Gideon glanced up, his eyes scarily empty. Then, he reached forward to grab Reid by the shoulder and pull him into a tight hug. Without thinking, Reid flung his arms around Gideon and buried his face in his shoulder, and the cold blood from the latter’s hands stained his shirt, but he didn’t care.

“You’re okay,” he breathed.

Gideon pushed him back to stare into his eyes, mouth slightly agape.

“Gideon?” Reid asked hesitantly.

After a pause, Gideon just whispered, “Why didn’t you see it?”

Reid blinked a couple times, swallowing before starting to say, “I—”

“You should have seen it,” Gideon breathed, before turning around and walking slowly away.

Hotch watched him go before glancing at Reid, clearly distressed. “He didn’t mean it,” he said quickly. “Pollock...Gideon found him, and—”

“I know,” Reid interrupted quietly, his eyes fixed on the man ambling towards the horizon, whose shoulders sagged as if he had just carried the weight of the world on his shoulders—and maybe he did. “I know.”

But he didn’t know. 

In fact, he wasn’t sure he knew anything anymore.

* * *

One month later, Hotch took over as Unit Chief and Gideon retreated into himself, staying away from the Bureau on a mandatory medical leave.

Two months later, there was radio silence from both ends as things started to settle down.

Three months later, Gideon returned, but Hotch remained the Unit Chief, and the former requested never to be put in the field again.

Four months later, he started teaching again, and Reid asked him if it was his fault ten times and did not believe him even after he said no to all of them.

Five months later, Morgan and Hotch put out an opening for their team, and the number of people that requested to join made them sick. It wasn’t their fault; all the agents were curious as to what it was like and none seemed to appreciate the blessed job of profiling from a desk at the BAU rather than on the field. 

Out of thirty applicants, twenty-one asked about the Bale case. They didn’t know how to respond.

Six months later, Gideon stood in the center of a lecture hall and tried not to think about the blood on his hands that had long since been scrubbed away. There was someone else that needed focusing on, and the agents in the hall were eager—innocent—as they asked questions and raised their hands to challenge them with tireless youth.

A knock on the door interrupted the class and Gideon’s new life of placidity.

“They call him the Seattle Strangler,” Reid said as they exited the room. “Four victims in four months.”

Gideon skimmed the file, falling into pace. “He keeps ‘em alive seven days,” he remarked, before tapping the crime scene photo. “The handle serves as a crank and allows him to control the rate of suffocation.”

“To prolong it?”

“To enjoy it. Seattle’s hit a wall?”

They turned the corner and started towards the conference room. “Physical evidence is nonexistent,” Reid explained, “there are no tangible leads.”

Gideon nodded resolutely. “And another girl is missing.” He pushed the door open. “I’ve looked over the file; I’ll gets some thoughts to you ASAP.”

“You’re going to be with us in Seattle ASAP,” Hotch said, striding into view. Morgan leaned on the table, looking on with curiosity.

“22-year-old Heather Woodland,” Hotch continued, sliding a computer over. “Before she left for lunch, she downloaded an email with a time-delayed virus attached. The killer's virus wiped her hard drive and left this on the screen.”

Gideon leaned in to read the words aloud: “‘For heaven’s sake, catch me before I kill more. I cannot control myself.” 

_I cannot control myself._

_Bale fiddled with his phone and sighed. “Jason...you know, I just can’t control myself.” He shrugged. “Sorry.”_

Gideon tore his focus away from the memory and concentrated on the case. The UNSUB was familiar with William Heirens, 

_Smart and detail-oriented, incredible risk-taker, lives alone_

familiar with law enforcement,

_Would have injected himself into the investigation and he did_

was smart, clearly, 

_This takes finesse and it takes a man who cares more about the game than his own life. These victims, they’re just test subjects._

and a white male, psychopathic, between

_The ages of thirty to forty, but don’t let age determine your suspects._

the ages of twenty to thirty.

“He never keeps them for more than seven days,” Morgan noted, “which means we have fewer than thirty-six hours to find her.”

“They want you back in the saddle,” Hotch added. “You ready?”

Reid leaned back on the table. “Looks like medical leave is over, boss,” he commented.

Gideon tore his gaze away from the wall and glanced at Hotch. “You sure they want me?”

Hotch nodded grimly. “The order came from the director.”

Gideon hesitated, taking in the small team that was watching expectantly—Hotch, Morgan, Reid. A soon-to-be father; a young man with his whole life ahead of him; a man forced to grow up in a short amount of time because of unusual circumstances that had led him to Gideon.

James had been all these things, too, but unlike the team, he was not a survivor, and they were. Gideon wanted to keep it that way; he _would_ keep it that way, even if it ended up being him on the wrong side of the explosion.

And part of him feared—part of him _knew_ —that was how it was going to go.

Gideon turned back to the board.

_Jason_

_For heaven’s sake, catch me before I kill again_

_You know, I just can’t_

_I cannot_

_control myself._

_control myself._

_Sorry._

He was sorry, too—sorry for whatever was about to happen—but there was no time to dwell on that now. 

_Now_ , six months later, Gideon was ready to face himself. No more hiding. No more not-knowing.

Just the profile. Just the UNSUB.

“Well, then,” he said, “let’s get started.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I lied and I actually _was_ able to finish!! It turns out the thing that was going to keep me from writing today is tomorrow.
> 
> This was SO FUN. I’ve always wanted to do The Bombing Incident thing and I finally did! I hope you enjoyed it. :D


	6. Where Do You Think You’re Going?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “‘A couple hours.’ A couple hours! You weren’t home until sunrise!”  
> In which Henry and Spencer run away from home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: on the run

“Thanks for doin’ this,” Will drawled, leading Spencer into the house. “I’m sure Henry’s gonna be thrilled that you’re here.”

“It’s no problem,” Spencer replied warmly, following him up the stairs.

Unfortunately, Henry was not thrilled.

The room was in shambles. Inside, Henry was scurrying from one side of the room to another, grabbing things off the floor and tossing them onto the bed. He didn’t acknowledge Will or Spencer’s presence; rather, he seemed to be making a point to ignore them.

“Henry?” Spencer called.

No response.

“It’s Uncle Spencer,” Spencer tried again. “Uncle Pens? I’m here to...hang out with you. For a few hours.”

“No,” Henry decided.

“What?”

“No,” Henry repeated firmly, crossing his arms. “Want Mama.”

“J—Mama’s not home,” Spencer explained carefully. “But we’re going to be—”

His sentence was cut off by a teddy bear to the face.

“He’s in a bit of a mood,” Will apologized.

“That’s fine,” Spencer replied, taking the teddy bear and setting it on the bed. “We’ll be okay, Will.”

“Thanks again.”

Will’s footsteps receded down the hall, then down the stairs. The door creaked open, then closed, plunging the entire house in silence. Henry nudged Spencer to the side before throwing a large beach bag on the bed and stuffing his possessions inside.

“What are you doing?” Spencer asked.

“Runnin’ away,” Henry replied.

“Oh.” Spencer swallowed, suddenly wondering what made JJ trust him with her son. “Where are you going to run to?”

“Mama,” Henry explained with a scowl. “I don’ like you.”

Spencer was familiar with that phrase. “Why not?”

Henry shrugged.

“Okay,” Spencer said carefully, sliding his bag from his shoulder to the bed. “Well, if you’re going to run away, could I run away with you? We could go to the park and no one would know where we went. It’ll be an adventure.”

Henry hesitated, then scowled again. “‘Kay.”

Spencer smiled. “Okay. Well, people need food, water, and shelter to survive,” he pointed out. “All I see are toys. How are you going to eat toys?”

Henry started to cry. “I’m never gonna eat ‘em! Don’t make me eat ‘em! I love ‘em!”

“No! No, you’re not going to eat them,” Spencer said quickly, mentally slapping himself. “Um...do you want to help me make something to eat? For our trip?”

“...Sammiches?” Henry asked with a miserable sniff.

“That’s perfect,” Spencer agreed.

It was not perfect. A few hours later, Spencer and Henry found themselves sitting in the dark, struggling through sawdust-dry cheese sandwiches and regretting the fact that they neglected to bring coats.

“Pens, it’s cold,” Henry whined.

“It is,” Spencer agreed. “Can we go home and get our coats, now?”

“No!” Henry exclaimed, exasperated. “No, no, no! Not going home.”

“Okay, then,” Spencer sighed, wrapping his arms tighter around himself, “not going home. The warm house. Where our coats are. And the cocoa is.”

He shouldn’t have said that. “We forgot the cocoa!” Henry wailed in dismay.

Spencer panicked as well. “Oh, look,” he tried, trying to change the subject, “a meteorite!”

“Meter?” Henry asked, successfully distracted.

Above, the sky was almost completely black, save for a light dusting of stars. Almost on cue, a long, thin, white line dragged across the atmosphere, before dissolving into darkness.

“Shooting star!” Henry gasped.

“It’s actually a meteor shower,” Spencer corrected him. “The Orionids. When comets disintegrate and the Earth—”

But Henry clapped his hands over his mouth. “Shhh.”

Spencer stayed quiet.

They stayed in the park for hours, watching the rest of the shower, until a harsh _BEEP-BEEP!_ brought them out of their reverie. JJ’s car slowed to a stop in front of them, and Spencer was suddenly very much wishing he hadn’t volunteered to babysit.

The window rolled down. “ _What_ are you boys doing?” JJ hissed.

“Meter show?” Henry offered meekly.

JJ was not amused. “Car. _Now_ ,” she ordered, very efficiently sending both Henry and Spencer into a frenzy as they gathered their things and scrambled into the backseat, looking equally sheepish.

Once the doors closed, JJ turned to face them. “Spencer,” she groaned, rubbing at her eyes. “Why are you in the park with my _son_ at…” She checked her watch. “ _Four in the morning?_ ”

Spencer swallowed. “We ran away from home.”

JJ sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose against the headache that was either caused by drinks with Emily or the irresponsibility of the men in her life. Probably both.

“Don’t do that again,” she scolded, and after a moment, she added, “Put your seatbelt on, Spence.”

Spencer obeyed, ducking his shoulders to keep from bumping his head against the ceiling. “I’m in your extra car seat,” he noted. “Could I store it in the—”

“ _No,_ ” JJ snapped. “Do you know how long it takes to put those together?”

“Uh, it takes—”

A withering glare from the rearview mirror quickly silenced him.

But it was replaced by the smallest of amused smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> F in the chat for Henry’s cocoa


	7. Please...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm’s voicemail box is quite the thrill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: “Stop, please”

**TRANSCRIPTS YEAR 2011-19: MARTIN WHITLY (INMATE 52B)**

**SENT MESSAGES TO MALCOLM BRIGHT (née WHITLY)**

**2011**

W: Malcolm! It’s Dad. Give me a call. How’s Quantico? Bye!

**2011**

W: Hey, there. Dad speaking. You know, that serial kidnapper is familiar. I remember a case like it back in ‘69. I could tell you all about it, if you’d like to stop by on furlough.

**2011**

W: Malcolm, hey. Dad here. I’m a little lonely.

**2011**

W: Call me. I heard the FBI’s got a pretty nasty thing here in NYC. We can suss it out here, if you so please.

**2011**

W: Mr. David’s here with me. Say hi, Mr. David!

 _(VOICE OF MR. DAVID)_ : Hello, Mr. Bright.

W: Do you miss my boy, Mr. David? I sure do.

**2011**

W: See that you solved that case! Without me. Nice work!

**2011**

W: How’s it going with that one girl? What was her name...Amy, maybe? Ooh, touchy subject, girls. Right? At least for me. Never mind.

**2011**

W: Malcolm! Dad. Call.

**2011**

W: Is your mother setting you up to this? Is that it? Or is it Ainsley?

**2011**

W: Hey, I know things between us have been...weird. Oh, who am I kidding? It’s always weird. But that’s what I love about you. You, my boy, are deliciously peculiar. We’re the same that way. Call me!

**2011**

W: “Special Agent Bright.” Why “Bright”? It’s okay, I guess—I get it, really—but...what was it about “Whitly” that made you...call me back. I want to know.

**2011**

W: You’re not calling me. Tell me why! _(Singing)_ Ain’t nothing but a heartbreak! Ain’t nothing but a mistake! _(Speaking)_ Take it away, Mr. David! No? See what I’m dealing with here, Malcolm? I need you here. We make a killer duet.

**2011**

W: Remember that one time where we had cake in the cell for your birthday? Oh, it was so hard blowing out the candles from six feet apart. Your birthday’s past now, but...it’s never too late to celebrate! _(Singing)_ Happy Birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday, dear Malcolm... _Speaking)_ This is awkward. Call back so I can sing to you for real!

**2011**

W: You know, lots of us have had kids. Remember? I wonder if any of them call their fathers. Although, I guess it’s hard to get calls when you’re...y’know. BZZZZZ. 

**2011**

W: Malcolm. MALCOLM. Call me.

**2011**

W: Please, Malcolm.

**2011**

W: Captain’s Log, Day Number...I lost count. How long has it been?

( _VOICE OF MR. DAVID):_ Nearly two years now.

W: Right. Nearly two years since you ABANDONED ME. FBI’s that glamorous, huh? Saving lives? Kicking bad-guy behinds? Hm? Call me. Please. Now.

**2011**

W: I wanna pick your brain about whether or not you believe Berkowitz was really possessed by that dog. Not literally, of course—I’ve already done that. Not my thing. We could talk about that, too, though, if you want.

**2012**

W: There’s a new inmate across from me, and he will NOT SHUT UP! Distract me, please, before I SCREAM. I’m going to scream. _(Screaming)_

_(VOICE OF TEVIN SCREAMING BACK)_

W: DON’T TEST ME! I AM TH- _(CALL DISCONNECTS)_

**2012**

W: Do you know a woman named Jackie Arroyo? She visited me. Well. WELL. That woman...she is someone I would never like to meet again. You never knew your grandmother, but the likeness was...I didn’t hurt her, obviously. In fact, she...no. I can’t send— _(CALL DISCONNECTS)_

**2012**

W: My boy, I am doing step aerobics in my cell and Mr. David is being very, very rude! I can’t even wear a cute outfit like the videos. Don’t skip leg day! Call me!

**2012**

W: Heard you’re in the hospital. A bit of a bonk to the noggin, eh? You’re probably not listening to this call, then, since you’re on cognitive rest...but when you do hear this, call me back! I once had a patient come in with brain hemorrhaging from a pie to the face. I kid you not! Guess he was really clowning around, am I right? I digress. Get well soon. Rest that brain of yours!

**2012**

W: Do you know what you’re doing to me? I am going to take this spork and plunge— _(CALL DISCONNECTS)_

**2012**

W: I got put in a timeout.

( _VOICE OF MR. DAVID):_ Solitary confinement, Martin.

W: It’s so unfair!

( _VOICE OF MR. DAVID):_ Rules are rules. You assaulted an inmate.

W: This is obvious prejudice! Inmate abuse! I demand justice! Malcolm, you’re in the FBI. Is that a federal crime? Why don’t you stop by to help my case here?

**2012**

W:( _Laughter)_

**2012**

W: Malcolm. CALL ME.

**2012**

W: ( _S_ _inging)_ One, is the loneliest number that you’ll ever do. Two, can be as bad as one, it’s the loneliest number...ugh. _(Speaking)_ That is number twelve on the list: “One” by Three Dog Night. You’re listening to Martin’s Not-So-Merry Music on channel FIVE HUNDRED SEVENTY-NINE DAYS.

**2012**

W: You know, Malcolm, I don’t know much about children, but I do know they have rebellious phases. I guess this is one of them, right? I, however, believe that I am a cool dad worth hanging out with. Well, when you’re out of your mood, call me. Please.

**2012**

W: It’s two years and six months. I’m losing a little hope here. Please, Malcolm. Call me.

**2012**

W: I screwed the mayor today! With an artificial knee replacement, don’t get your pants in a twist. I can tell you all about it if you stop by.

**2012**

W: CALL ME.

**2012**

W: “Special Agent Bright.” It does have a nice ring to it. Call me back.

**2012**

W: They made a documentary about little old me! Can you believe it, my boy? I’m just blushing. Say what you want about serial killers, but you gotta admit, they make for great TV. I’m watching this now and—hold up. Wait, what? No. No, no! This isn’t true, this is—( _CALL DISCONNECTS)_

**2013**

W: Three years. Call me. I have thoughts on your case!

**2013**

W: I’ve been watching your sister on TV! She’s gotten so big. I wonder what you look like now? Do you have any photos of him, Mr. David? On Google or something? No, just try it. Try M-A-L-C—yeah. Yes! Now it’s “Bright.” Like the sun. B-R-I-G-H-T. Yeah, I know. What? He’s off the grid? How off? Why would he do that?

 _(VOICE OF MR. DAVID):_ Probably because of you.

**2014**

W: It’s been...four years. And I’ve been doing well. I want to know how you’re doing, too. Please. Just...what are you doing out there?

**2014**

W: STOP IGNORING ME!

**2015**

W: Five year mark. You must be...twenty-eight? Wow. Are you still a fed? That’s got to be pretty great, maybe. I dunno. Maybe you could tell me about it. I know you’re getting my calls. Why aren’t you answering?

~~**2015**~~

~~W: Her name was Sophie Sanders and she was the only one I ever let go.~~

**(MESSAGE DELETED PER INMATE REQUEST)**

**2016**

W: Six years. Wow. Um, I don’t know why I’m doing this. Guess it’s that last spark of hope. There’s a bunch of headless bodies turning up across the country, yes? Are you on the case?

**2017**

W: Just wanna let you know...I love you. Happy birthday.

**2017**

W: Stop this. Stop this now. Please. No, stop it now. STOP THIS NOW, MALCOLM.

**2018**

W: You can’t ignore me forever. It might take ten years, twenty years, and I might be dead before you know it, but...you’ll be back. Eventually. Even if it’s at my grave, you’ll be back, because you’re my son, and family...it’s an urge. You can’t control it. And it might scare you, I know, but believe me, my boy...you can’t run from who you are. It’s only a matter of time. And that is nothing to be afraid of.

**2019**

W: I need you. You need me. We’re the only ones who understand each other. We’re the same.

( _VOICE OF MR. DAVID):_ Martin? You’ve got a visitor.

_(CALL DISCONNECTS)_

**(END OF TRANSCRIPTS)**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god this is definitely not how prisons work but artistic license you’ll understand ahahaha
> 
> If it helps Martin is totally doing step aerobics to the song “Respect” by Aretha Franklin


	8. I’ve Got You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Writer’s block is a bitch. Here are some tips to get your gears going!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: enemy to caretaker / support  
> Spoilers for Criminal Minds s12

Hey all!

This is a _little_ different than a normal prompt—a sort of Director’s Cut, if you will—because I couldn’t think of anything to do. (Ah, foreshadowing! Pay heed.) So, let me start off with a nice hook:

**Writer’s block is a bitch.**

You scribble and you type and you think, but sometimes you’re staring at a blank doc and wasting your life. You _want_ to write, but you don’t know _what_ to write.

Fear not! I come with a few helpful suggestions.

(Hopefully.)

So without further ado, here are some suggestions for slaying writer’s block featuring first drafts of a few fics I’ve written before.

(Hence, the “enemy to caretaker” prompt. Ha.)

**#1: THE DEVIL’S IN THE DETAILS**

I do not know how to write a script. I wrote one _once_ in seventh grade for a class play, but I doubt that was correct. But writing out a “script” of sorts can be really fun and helpful to remember dialogue and blocking—for introspections, scene studies, and the like.

Plus, unless you’re like me and tossing your old drafts into the abyss for all the ao3 to see, you don’t have to worry about adding all the fancy bits like “CUT TO” and “FADE OUT” and whatever fancy stuff.

**You are the only one that has to know what the hell you’re doing.**

...That is, at first. Then it gets complicated.

Let’s start with a small piece of [ this scene ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5VizPqtkd8A) from Prodigal Son s01e01, “Pilot”.

All you have to do is watch and type out the words and important actions. I’m using “B” for Bright and “M” for Martin.

B holding an orange packet with the case files.

M: Malcolm. (Smiles.) My boy.

B: Dr. Whitly.

M: God, I can’t believe it. Ten years.

Pause.

B: nice cell. Who paid for it?

M: oh, you’d be amazed at what our...Saudi friends would pay a disgraced cardiothoracic surgeon.

B almost smiles.

Now, add correct grammar, keeping the first script above to remember any other notes.

M: Malcolm. My boy.

B: Dr. Whitly.

M: God, I can’t believe it. Ten years.

B: Nice cell. Who paid for it?

M: Oh, you’d be amazed at what our Saudi friends would pay a disgraced cardiothoracic surgeon.

Nice! Now we can turn it into an actual paragraph. For now, I’ll keep it plain with the focus on who says what.

“Malcolm. My boy,” Martin said.

“Dr. Whitly,” Bright said.

“God, I can’t believe it. Ten years.”

“Nice cell. Who paid for it?”

“Oh, you’d be amazed at what our Saudi friends would pay a disgraced cardiothoracic surgeon.”

Basic structure done! But it’s super bland. Let’s rewatch the video and notice—

  * Martin smiles after “Malcolm”
  * Bright is tense, SUPER tense, when he greets him back. The word to use is “curt” or “terse”
  * Martin is still smiley and breathy. Pause between “it” and “ten” as he takes in the sight of his son.
  * After a beat, Bright says “nice cell”, but he isn’t complimenting it. “Who paid for it?” He knows Martin has connections.
  * A bit of a breathy beat when Martin mentions the Saudis. His voice drops a little at “cardiothoracic surgeon” and he gives Bright a little knowing glance. Ha-ha. Joke. Bright almost smiles before remembering who he is—clearly, he’s changed, trying not to be friendly with Martin anymore.



After the little notes are taken out, structure and format could be applied to the dialogue. Cuts between sentences, periods, italics and synonyms are all good to show emotion.

“Malcolm,” Martin said with a smile. “My boy.”

_Shows a pause between the two words as the reader processes the narration._

“Dr. Whitly,” Bright replied curtly.

_But how to add that stiff posture??_

Martin shook his head in disbelief. “God, I can’t believe it. Ten years.”

_Spice it up! Dialogue doesn’t always have to come first; especially if there’s a pause. We visualize Martin shaking his head before he speaks. This is a slow exchange._

Bright gestured to the cell. “Nice cell. Who paid for it?” he remarked.

_“Remarked”—the sharp tones and quick sounding syllables make it sound clinical. Bright is making an observation._

“Oh, you’d be amazed at what our Saudi friends would pay a disgraced cardiothoracic Surgeon.”

_No need for a “Martin replied”; we know who is speaking and now the focus is on his actual words._

Bright almost smiled, but quickly sobered, turning back to the case file in his hands.

_Well, technically he didn’t turn back to the file. But glancing at case = talking about case. Voila—transition!_

Woohoo! A little bit of a start! Without my commentary, here’s what it looks like.

“Malcolm,” Martin said with a smile. “My boy.”

“Dr. Whitly,” Bright replied curtly.

Martin shook his head in disbelief. “God, I can’t believe it. Ten years.”

Bright gestured to the cell. “Nice cell. Who paid for it?”

“Oh, you’d be amazed at what our Saudi friends would pay a disgraced cardiothoracic Surgeon.”

Bright almost smiled, but quickly sobered, turning back to the case file in his hands.

Almost done! Final touches: Malcolm’s tenseness and change up the words a little to add description and make it more interesting—try not to put the same words together all the time, like in “Bright gestured to the cell. ‘Nice cell.’” This is also….a room. A chamber. An enclosure. The interior of Martin’s not-so-cozy abode.

After that, you’re done! We went from that short little script to a nice chunk of writing:

“Malcolm,” Martin said. A smile spread across his face. “My boy.”

“Dr. Whitly,” Bright greeted curtly. 

Martin’s eyes scanned him up and down; taking in the tautness in his body and the case file in his hands. “God, I can’t believe it,” he breathed. “Ten years.”

Bright gestured to the enclosure around them. “Nice cell,” he remarked knowingly. “Who paid for it?”

“Oh, you’d be amazed at what our Saudi friends would pay a disgraced cardiothoracic Surgeon.”

Bright almost smiled, but quickly sobered, turning back to the case file in his hands.

Yay! That’s pretty decent, no? And now you spent some time adding detail to make the scene feel more real.

But here’s the thing...what if you don’t want to write a scene? You don’t have time to set up the DVR or whatever, you want to write something and set up your own little thing.

_But a prompt isn’t enough._

Difficult indeed! 

But then...there’s the _moment._

Which leads me onto our next thing:

**#2: WE’LL BURN THAT BRIDGE WHEN WE GET THERE (“THE MOMENT”)**

Do you know the Plot Mountain that teachers forced you to fill out? You know, this?

EWWWWWWWWWW.

KILL IT WITH FIRE!!!

Half the time, I have no idea how a story is going to go!

But I _do_ know one thing: The Moment(s).

I KNOW I want to do this thing. You do, too.

Example: _I wanted Malcolm to get involved with a creepy art cult._

Yay! Lots of potential, sure. But then…the exposition. The looming realization that

  1. I had to build it up to the climax
  2. I had to provide reasons to literally everything
  3. I had to think of how he was going to get out of it



And the worst of all:

4\. I couldn’t go straight to the “fun part”, aka the whump

Well, yes you can!

The answer to all: SNIPS! SNIPS! SNIPS!

Write the moment! Write the fun part! Write all the little things and sentences you really want and separate them with page breaks.

Here’s the first things I wrote for “Trompe l’Oeil”:

(Please ignore the title of this document. Ahahahha.)

So now you got everything you want! Hooray! Take a look and find some questions:

  * Where is Malcolm? Why is he alone? What’s with the spinny wall?
  * How did he get into the art gallery?
  * How did JT get into the chair?
  * When and how does Martin reveal he is in the cult?
  * Where are Malcolm and Gil?
  * How does Malcolm call for backup?
  * Who is the victim/suspect? How do we meet him?
  * What did Malcolm do before JT arrived? Is this the end or middle of the story?



From there you can fill it out and answer your questions.

** #3: TALK TO THE MANAGER. YOU ARE THE MANAGER. **

Here’s what happens: you pull up an old fic of yours, you read it, and you want to pour gasoline over it.

DON’T!!

Rather...burn _some_ of it. But add more to it! It’s really fun to fix an old bit of a fic. For example, here’s an excerpt of “The Cottage”:

Emily checked her clipboard, and whistled. “Apparently so. Elizabeth says she came home via the back door, but the front door was wide open.”

“So what, then? Joseph gets blackout-drunk. He’s angry.” Morgan moves to stand by the couch.

“Suddenly, Matthew says or does something,” Emily continued, standing with her back to the front door. “Joseph doesn’t like it, so maybe he starts forward.”

“I’m Joseph,” Morgan declared, walking towards Emily. “I’m shouting, I’m drunk--so drunk I won't remember this later.”

“Matthew tries to run.” Emily moved backwards. “He opens the door, but Joseph has caught up to him.”

Morgan feigns pushing her out the door, and Emily steps over the threshold. Now, she is outside. Morgan raises his fist and brings it down. “Smash.”

Ehhhhhhhh. It could be better. Where’s the classic “so I’m the UNSUB”? This needs a bit of a tune-up, right? I’ve learned more about grammar and writing since then; let me apply this and see how I’ve changed. Let’s make it flow a little smoother.

“Apparently so,” Emily replied, glancing down at her clipboard. “Elizabeth says she came home through the back door. The front door was wide open with no signs of forced entry.”

“Okay, then,” Morgan said, moving to stand by the couch, “so Joseph’s been drinking. He’s blackout-drunk and angry.”

Emily continued the scenario. “Matthew does something,” she offered, taking a step back towards the open door. “Joseph doesn’t like it.”

“Joseph moves forward and Matthew moves backward,” Morgan went on. “The kid’s running, and they make it to the front door before…”

Moving to the porch, Emily stepped over the threshold and walked down the stairs until she stood on the pavement in front of the house. Morgan joined her, searching around until his gaze landed on broken glass.

Pushing away a pile of leaves, the two discovered a shattered beer bottle.

“Smash,” Emily concluded.

Morgan raised himself back up to a standing position. “If I’m the UNSUB, it’d be easy for me to coax Matthew away from a house he’s already running from.”

Look how far you’ve come! Be proud of yourself!

GO, YOU!

**#4: YOU** ~~**WON’T**~~ **LIKE ME WHEN I’M PSYCHOANALYZED**

((S12 CRIMINAL MINDS MAJOR SPOILERS))

Fanfiction LIVES off of things they didn’t like about canon and LIVES off subtext.

  * Person looking at other person? IN LOVE.
  * In the hospital for two weeks? TIMESKIP WHO??
  * “I don’t know.”? MORAL DILEMMA.
  * “I have a mild peanut allergy.”? MILD? HA. THAT’S FUNNY.
  * He wore a red sweater vest? IT’S THE SAME ONE FROM s02e15 AND HE KEPT IT DESPITE THE TRAUMA ASSOCIATED WITH IT BECAUSE—



See what I mean?

This kind of goes hand-in-hand with The Moment. The plot is yours to manipulate! You have the power! Mwahahaha!

(*crack of lighting*)

Believe me, you can do literally _anything you want._ It’s amazing. And oftentimes, if you’re salty about canon, you have material to work with instead of a blank doc! Find those videos! Look up that transcript! Stalk that Twitter!

So here’s a controversial opinion: _I liked the prison arc in Criminal Minds._

But I didn’t like what came after.

Because holy!!! What!!! The POTENTIAL. What does three months in prison do to someone? Nothing good, that’s for sure.

And while the show did a superb job, I wanted _more_ , because I’m greedy like that.

Cue a line towards the end of s12e22:

_“Why didn’t anyone tell me that the kid had been arrested?”_

_“Reid made a list of people he was willing to see. You weren’t on it.”_

Oh. _Oh._

THE _DRAMA._

**_THIS I CAN WORK WITH._ **

So I did.

Which melds into the final tip:

**#5: THE WISE WORDS OF SHIA LABEOUF**

_DO IT! JUST!! DO IT!!!_

_MAKE!! YOUR DREAMS!!! HAPPEN!!!!_

Brainstorming WORKS.

Get a piece of paper or a blank doc and just _explode._

So I had my angsty snippet and I had my dilemma, so I smashed them together: What happens in three months to Reid that makes him who he is in the finale? And why didn’t he want Morgan to know what was happening?

The answer:

I wanted him to lose. His. MARBLES.

But how to show those thoughts?

Pssssh. Italics, you say? Nah.

If you’ve read “Visiting Hours”, you know that 80% of it consists of parenthesis and the other 20% is a whole! Scrabble! Of! Words! ASDFGHJKL.

And that’s fun, fun, fun to write. Variation is a favorite-favorite-favorite thing in fics! Make it interesting!

Spencer’s brain is pretty scrambled. Who cares about punctuation when he’s feeling shabby? Here’s a soliloquy from s12e18 “Hell’s Kitchen” that I used for the summary of Visiting Hours: 

_Getting more and more intense. Got to fall deeper in to beat them. I’ve lost friends before, but not like this; not in a box where I have no control—or do I?_ _Starting to think like them; starting to survive like them._ _I’m here because I made a choice._ _What if that means I don’t get out alive?_

Good for a summary. But when watching the episode, it SOUNDS like—

_Getting more and more intense_

_Got to fall deeper in to beat them_

_I’ve lost friends before but_

_not like this_

_not in a_

_box where i have no control_

_Or do I?_

_Starting to_

_think like them_

_Starting to_

_survive like them_

_I’m here because I made a choice_

_What if that means I don’t get out alive?_

Voila—drama! Rushed! Marbles lost.

(And look: If you’re still here, I’m pretty sure about 40% of the reason you stayed is because of the bold and italic letters, bullet points, photos, and indentations.)

You don’t have to be consistent if the story doesn’t want to be consistent.

Everything I said about grammar? Poof!

Everything I said about structure? Zap!

Like I said,

**You are the only one that has to know what the hell you’re doing.**

Except now there is an amendment:

**But also, be extra as hell.**

I literally dumped a bucket of symbols and new diction and it ended up being more interesting than before. Why? I AM A THEATRICAL BASTARD.

So here’s this:

(That is, until it’s _VISITING HOURS ARE OVER INMATES PROCEED TO REAR GATE_ and He watches Spencer leave with Luke, out the door, out of This Place, and all the way home.)

(In His mind, shadows take up the space where the Empty used to be. He welcomes the company.)

And here’s its English translation:

Luke said goodbye and Spencer wasn’t happy anymore. In fact, he was starting to feel quite murderous.

Both make sense. The first one less so.

But the first one was Extra (TM).

STAB writer’s block through the heart because it is not the drama queen here.

JT can prance around the coffee machine with a cowboy hat and a plush horse-head-on-a-stick while shouting “JARMEL TARMEL THE COWBOY IS FREE” and it would be SUPERB.

**Because writing doesn’t have to look professional to make a point.**

**(In fact, you don’t need to** **_have_ ** **a point to make when writing, either.)**

Which might be a major reason why writer’s block occurs.

* * *

**EPILOGUE: DETAILS ARE THE DEVIL**

Forgot to mention that the 1st writers block tip can be good and nice and all but you also get things like—

R: religious phrascolorfehbfw theyre similar in that both be hallucibceh intensnsns geometry

R: 60 min bad 60 sec good if em dies (sad voice crack) i yeet more books

So I guess the moral is **You don’t really know what the hell you’re doing after all...but there are words on the doc and therefore you wrote something cheers applause ice cream thank you and goodnight.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO THANKS FOR LISTENING TO MY SPIEL
> 
> And I hope there was something in there that you found helpful despite me not being qualified to talk about this ahaha
> 
> (If no tips helped your writer’s block, then at least you have the image of Jarmel Tarmel The Cowboy in your head, hopefully. Maybe you could write that? I dunno. XD)


	9. Where Did Everybody Go?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm is sick. JT watches him. They make a break in the case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: “Don’t Say Goodbye” / Isolated  
> (But very loosely because I didn’t know what to do rip)

Big surprise: Malcolm Bright had the flu.

Gil turned him away almost as soon as he stumbled into the precinct; eyes glazed and shoulders shaking with the effort of keeping himself upright.

“Gil,” Bright protested, his voice crackling with mucus in the back of his throat. “Gil, I’ve got information on—”

“Walk and talk,” Gil directed, grabbing him by the shoulder and steering him towards the door.

Bright stayed stubbornly still. “You need me.”

“Of course I do,” Gil sighed, “but at your _best._ We’re not going to catch this guy any quicker if you come in looking like hell.”

“Finally,” Bright rasped sarcastically, “my outsides match my insides.”

Gil was not amused. “You’ve got a fever,” he noted, palming the back of Bright’s neck.

“Adults rarely get fevers.”

“‘Rarely’ as in it still happens.”

Bright sighed softly, letting his gaze wander as if he was projecting the profile into the air in front of him. “The man you’re looking for is a classic sociopath. He’s divorced, no kids, and has a history of animal abuse.”

“Okay, got that,” Gil agreed, “You can write up a report from home and send it to me.”

Bright shook his head and swayed on his feet. “He drives a masculine vehicle, but it’s not large. Might’ve been fired from a career in the medical industry.”

“Perfect. E-mail.” Gil tugged Bright further outside, but he jerked away. 

“You need me.”

“You said that, kid,” Gil reminded him, “and I told you, you’re right.” Despite Bright’s struggling, he was able to wrap his hands around either wrist and look into his eyes. “But you need rest.”

Simple as that: Bright deflated. “No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do. I’ll call a cab.”

“I can’t.”

“You can.”

“No, I _c_ _an’t,”_ Bright growled, pulling away. His face crumpled; trying to keep himself from choking out a sob. “I can’t. It’s too much—the _thinking.”_ His hands jerked and tapped his head, then his upper chest, like they were trying to explain it better than his mouth was doing. “I wake up and I can’t breathe and I can’t fall asleep without feeling _electricity_ like it’s _rippling_ through my _heart_ and I don’t want to sleep because m’just _alone_ and I _know_ I’m going to—”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t,” Bright whispered. His eyes were red. “If you did, you’d let me stay.”

Gil grit his teeth. Bright straightened, eyes gleaming—he knew he had won.

“Fine,” the former spat out, tugging him back inside. “But I’m gonna have someone on your ass at all times.”

* * *

“No,” JT said firmly.

“Please?” Gil asked desperately.

JT didn’t relent. “I ain’t Bright-sitting. That’s Dani’s job.”

Gil pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing loudly. “Thirty minutes is all I’m asking. He’s gonna wear himself out and go home eventually, but until then—”

JT held up a hand to silence him. “He almost ate a dozen bullets the last time he slept here.”

“He doesn’t always have night terrors,” Gil argued. JT lifted an eyebrow, unconvinced. “Okay, that’s a lie, but I just want to make sure he isn’t alone when it happens.”

After a moment, JT sighed, loud and long. “Where’s the kid?”

“On the couch,” Gil replied, the relief evident in his eyes.

Luckily, when JT entered the conference room, Bright was dead to the world.

For about two seconds.

“You gotta be kidding me,” JT muttered, as a high wine broke from Bright’s throat. He twisted a little bit on the couch, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, and JT stood where he was, unsure of what to do.

“Wake up,” he ordered flatly, reaching out to shake Bright’s shoulder. No response. “Come on. I ain’t babying you.”

He touched Bright’s shoulder again, but this time the latter jerked and fused his hand around JT’s wrist and _screamed._

JT jerked backwards, pulling his arm out of the vice. “Holy shit.”

Bright shouted something incomprehensible and started to slide off the couch. He landed on the ground with a heavy thud but didn’t wake up; rather, his thrashing grew more and more intense, his exclamations more and more agitated.

JT reached forward and grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket, trying to pull him to a sitting position. It worked, but Bright stayed bonelessly flopped and twitching against the base of the couch.

Again, JT should not have expected him to stay that way, but it was a little too late to think about it when Bright shot to his feet and barreled into him.

JT couldn’t stifle the hard _oof_ that was punched out of his chest as Bright slammed face-first into him. Unsure of what to do, JT wrapped his arms around him and tried to keep him from breaking anything.

“Gil!” he called.

Nothing. Bright sobbed and struggled against the arms restraining him, and for a moment, JT wondered if he was awake, but, though his eyes were open, it didn’t look like he was seeing much.

Also, he was burning through his coat.

“Jesus,” JT muttered, as the feverish load in his arms bucked and squirmed, “why the hell are you here?”

Bright didn’t respond—obviously—but his knees buckled and went abruptly silent as both of them sank to the ground.

“You all there?” JT asked cautiously, slowly loosening his grip.

Bright blinked unsteadily, then dragged his gaze to JT. “Hi.”

“Hi yourself. What the hell was that? Never mind,” he added, as Bright started to stumble through a garbled explanation, “you’re goin’ home. You look like death.”

“Death,” Bright echoed, his eyes wandering. Then he froze. “Death.”

“Yeah. You’re like a thousand degrees.”

“One hundred one point four,” Bright corrected him, staggering to his feet. His face went pale and he swallowed, but shook off JT’s protests and hurried to the whiteboard. “That’s what I was missing—death!”

“Death?” Now it was JT’s turn to be confused.

“Our killer, the poisonings—he doesn’t watch them die because he doesn’t _need_ to,” Bright mumbled. “All that matters to him is making sure people are dead.”

“Isn’t that kind of the point of a serial killer?”

Bright didn’t hear the comment. “He’s dying. His goal is to outlive every people as possible—I had him marked down as an Angel of Death at first, but now…”

“But now we got ourselves a guy who’s bitter about dying and decides to send others down there first,” JT groaned. “How are we gonna know who’s next?”

“We don’t,” Bright shrugged. “It’s completely random...unless…” He thought for a moment, staring at the ground, then shot back up. “He needs more risk. That’s why he’s killing. He knows he’s going to die eventually, but the _thrill_ of...if he could watch someone suffer, if he could poison someone and know he _really_ outlived them…he wants to cheat death, he doesn’t want to say goodbye because of his _family...”_

“His family? What are you thinking?”

Bright smiled. “I’m going to help him die.”

“What the hell?”

Bright didn’t answer. He turned, stumbled, and ran out the door, leaving JT alone in the room.

“What the actual hell,” he stated again.

Then, with a sigh, he followed Bright out of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was sort of run-of-the-mill ‘cause I’ve never written a sick fic and don’t know how to be dramatic enough haha so much for following my own advice from the last chapter
> 
> But the next one’s going to be SUPER extra. So I hope you enjoy that one!


	10. For the Greater Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Father. Son. Holy Spirit.  
> And what was he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: ritual sacrifice  
> Spoilers for s02e15 “Revelations”, s04e03 “Minimal Loss”, and s14e01 “300”

Spencer knew something was wrong almost as soon as he got in his car.

Then again, a gun to the back of the head is a pretty strong indicator of trouble.

“Put your car in drive and do not make a move to exit the vehicle,” the man in the backseat ordered.

His voice was familiar. “Theo? Theo Holston?” Spencer asked, keeping his eyes forward and his arms in his lap.

“My name is Benjamin,” the man corrected him. “Drive.”

“‘Benjamin’,” Spencer mused as he pulled out of the parking garage and into the street, driving with one hand. “You’re the Messiah now.” After a moment of thought, he added, “But you were killed in the warehouse, and we arrested all the Believers in Arcadia.”

“I am reborn,” Theo murmured, “and so are my disciples. Take a left.”

Spencer rolled down his window and turned a left, glancing at the streetlight before focusing his attention back on the road. “Why are you alone? You’re the Messiah; your disciples bring victims to you, not the other way around.”

“I saw God,” Theo explained. “He showed me—He _told_ me—it was only I who could bring Him His final angel.”

“You didn’t,” Spencer replied. He stopped the car on the side of the road and slipped his hands into his pockets again.

“I did.”

“No, you didn’t.”

The gun on the back of his head pressed harder. “It’s God’s will.”

“No,” Spencer repeated simply, turning in his seat so that he was facing him, “it’s not God’s will, it’s not even _your_ will—it’s the Believers' will. And you need to prove yourself to them, but I know the Theo I saw in my classroom wasn’t a killer.”

“I’m not Theo,” Theo replied.

The corner of Spencer’s mouth tugged in a sympathetic line. “You don’t want to do this.”

Theo grit his teeth. “I have to. Drive.”

“I can take us to my friends,” Spencer offered, turning back around in his seat. “We can protect you.”

“I don’t need _protecting,_ ” Theo spat, though the grip on his gun trembled. “This is my choice. This is what must happen.”

Spencer glanced down at his watch from where his hand was fixed on the top of the steering wheel. “Twenty-eight minutes.”

“What?”

Spencer made eye contact through the rearview mirror. “You have twenty-eight minutes.”

“Twenty-eight minutes until what?”

“You have twenty-eight minutes,” Spencer explained, “to come with me. My friends will see me on the security camera on the street corner—I know they will. I’m supposed to be at a friend’s house in five minutes and I’m never late. It will take twenty more minutes for them to drive back to Quantico, check my whereabouts, and in three additional minutes, they’ll know it was you.”

“They think I’m dead,” Theo argued.

“Not anymore,” Spencer replied, pulling his phone out of his pocket and tossing it out the window. “90% battery; password is off. I wouldn’t leave the car,” he added, as Theo started to turn, “because as _I’m_ still in the driver’s seat and _you’re_ still a convicted felon on CCTV, the chances of you slipping out quickly and silently aren’t high once you do. Do you know what this tells me about you? First of all—”

He didn’t get a chance to explain before Theo pulled a syringe out of his pocket, jammed it hard into Spencer’s deltoid, and pushed down on the plunger.

* * *

“Voicemail again,” JJ murmured, tucking her phone into her pocket. “Guys, I’m getting worried.”

“Maybe Spence just took the night off,” Rossi offered. “He was looking kind of peaky after that last case.”

“But he left at the same time all of us did,” Luke pointed out, “and I saw his car pull out only a few minutes after I headed over here. Even if he didn’t come, wouldn’t he let us know? It’s—”

“Guys,” Emily interrupted softly, her eyes on her phone.

The panic in JJ’s chest sparked. “What?”

Wordlessly, Emily handed over the phone. On the screen was a single message:

_THEO BEN_

And then another popped up:

_WILLIS RIVER CAM_

A third message started to form, but after a moment, the text bubble disappeared.

“This isn’t good,” Matt remarked.

“‘Theo’ and ‘Ben’,” Tara noted, “is he talking about Theo from Ben’s Believers?”

“But he’s dead,” Rossi pointed out.

“Apparently not,” Emily muttered, reading the other text. “Willis Street and River Road are just outside of Quantico. Are there any cameras on buildings nearby?” She sighed. “Times like these are when I wish Garcia was here.”

“Well, Kevin will have to do,” JJ replied, dialing.

Kevin answered quickly. “ _Heir to the Oracle speaking!”_

“I need you to hack in on the closest camera at the corner of Willis and River.”

_“Might I ask—”_

“Just do it, Kevin!”

_“Alright, alright! Jeez, I get it...okay, I’m in. What are we looking for?”_

“Reid’s car. He may have been abducted just now.”

_“Wait, what? Reid? Like, our Reid? The smart kid? Again?”_

“Yes! Hurry up!”

_“Okay, okay, let’s see...yeah, he just pulled out. I’m going to try and follow—oh, no._ ”

Emily took the phone from JJ. “What do you mean, _‘oh, no’?_ ” she demanded.

“ _You gotta get over there.”_

* * *

When Spencer woke up for the first time, he was upside down, and people were speaking.

“The time is nearly here,” someone—Theo?—was muttering. His legs entered Spencer’s field of vision, though it was all slightly blurry, and soon enough, Spencer settled for keeping his eyes closed.

“What happens if it doesn’t work?” a woman whimpered.

“What doesn’t work?” Spencer wondered aloud without thinking, but it came out more as a, “Wh’dzz’t’rk?”

A set of footprints moved toward him, and Spencer forced his face to relax as someone’s breath warmed his face. “Dr. Reid?”

Theo. Spencer opened his eyes. “Y’don’t have to kill me,” he mumbled, slowly gaining control over his vocal chords. “Y’don’t...and you don’ want to.”

“Genesis 4:7,” Theo murmured, sitting back on his heels. “ _If you do what is right, will you not be accepted? But if you do not do what is right, sin is crouching at your door; it desires to have you, but you must rule over it.”_

“Exodus 20:13,” Spencer retorted, “ _You shalt not murder.”_

Theo grit his teeth. “ _And you will be hated by all for my name's sake. But the one who endures to the end will be saved.”_

“‘ _For this my son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and has been found.’ And they began to celebrate.”_

Theo grabbed a fistful of his hair. “You think you—”

“Know the word better than you?” Spencer replied hazily. He shrugged. “I have a grasp.”

Theo let go of his hair with an angry thrust, taking his face in both hands. “The first thing,” he said, “what was it?”

Spencer just sighed softly, closing his eyes. “Not gonna kill me.”

“Why not?” Theo demanded, giving him a harsh shake.

Spencer flit his eyes back to him before sliding shut again. “‘Dr. Reid’.” A small smile spread across his face. “Y’re followers call me Spencer.”

“And?”

“S’like seeing your teacher at the grocery store. Kinda are.”

“How much did you give him?” the woman from afar scoffed.

Theo ignored her. “What else? _What else?”_

“We c’n...both b’saved. Trust me.”

* * *

“I am really getting sick of these Believers,” Emily huffed as they sped along River Road.

“Tell me about it,” Rossi agreed. “It’s like the Daleks—one second you think they’re gone for good, and then it turns out a few of them escaped at the last minute.” Off the rest of the team’s baffled stares, he admitted, “Okay, Garcia made me watch a little bit. A _little bit!”_ he insisted, as the comms were flooded with muffled giggles.

“I’ve got something!” Matt called from the front SUV, pulling to a stop at the edge of the road. “That’s Reid’s phone.”

In his passenger seat, Tara pulled on a pair of gloves and fished the phone from the grass. “It’s on, and he’s disabled the code.” She tapped a few buttons, then read aloud: “ _THEO BELIEVERS. ALIVE. MESSIAH. Charlie is the Alpha, Bravo for him, they’re taking me to India before November gets here. Try APRIL. Don’t worry, he won’t do it, but please hurry.”_

“Charlie-Alpha-Bravo-India-November,” Luke observed. “That’s ‘cabin’.”

“Not just any cabin,” JJ realized, “remember April, Theo’s girlfriend? He’s got to be talking about her cabin.”

“I doubt the Believers can fit,” Rossi pointed out skeptically.

“But _I_ doubt there are a lot of Believers left,” Emily pointed out. She hurried back to the SUV. “Let’s go. Reid told us not to worry, but he’s been the Believers’ end game for eleven years. I’m hoping they can stand to wait a little longer.”

* * *

Spencer woke up to a naked hanging lightbulb over his head, and he screamed.

“Don’t fear! Don’t fear,” the man at his side soothed quickly, gripping his arm tightly. Once Spencer had calmed some, he gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “There is nothing to fear.”

Spencer squeezed his eyes shut, then pried them open again. His tongue felt heavy. “Theo. Where’s Theo? Benjamin?”

“He’s preparing,” the man murmured, giving him a pat on the back before raising himself to a standing position. “At last, you come to save us.”

“This is the third time one of you has said that to me,” Spencer mumbled, keeping his head tilted back over the edge of the chair.

“Three is the number of sons of Noah,” the man said. “Three is the number of God—Father, Son, and Spirit. Three is the number of hours until the end of the world as we know it—unless you do what must be done.” He turned and hurried towards the front door of the cabin before turning back briefly. “I will let you speak to the Messiah to confess your—”

_“I have nothing to confess.”_

As he said this, Spencer’s entire body language had changed in a snap; one moment, his limbs were lolling and pliable, the next, all the muscles in his body tensed up and his eyes fixed on the man with such a burning intensity that the latter only dropped his gaze and exited the cabin.

But the moment he left, Spencer exhaled, a shaky whimper breaking from his throat. He slumped back down over the side of the chair, staring up at the ceiling, at the single lightbulb hanging a few feet from his face.

“I’m not weak,” he told himself. “I’m not weak, I’m not weak, I’m not—”

“You’re not.”

Spencer twisted in his seat. “I told you I could save us,” he whispered. “Let me do it.”

“But you _can_ save us,” Theo said quietly, crouching down. His brow was furrowed in slight puzzlement. “I called you Dr. Reid, and you said that was why I wasn’t going to kill you. Tell me why.”

“It’s too personal,” Spencer explained. “You can’t—you can’t look me in the eyes, you got frustrated when I quoted Scripture back at you, and even now, you feel threatened. When your followers had me kidnapped and set up to be their 300th victim, you argued for me in the riot. But your parents were dead and you had nowhere else to go. Why not fill the role everyone expected of you?”

“It’s my calling,” Theo breathed, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out a curved blade. “And it’s your destiny.”

“My destiny to survive you twice, only to be killed again?”

“Only to wait for now. Have you ever experienced God, Spencer?”

A beat. “I have,” Spencer replied quietly.

“And what did you see?”

Spencer pursed his lips. “I don’t know.”

“And how many times has this occurred?”

“...Two.”

Theo chuckled slightly, standing up. “You see now?” He held up his fingers. “Three.”

Spencer swallowed, but didn’t answer.

Did he?

* * *

The SUVs pulled into the cabin, slowly at first, then rushed when the light inside flicked on.

“Shouldn’t we wait for a tactical team?” Matt offered, but his suggestion was quickly ignored. With a sigh, he drew his gun and followed the rest of the team into the cabin.

The cabin was larger than they had believed. Emily cleared a few rooms before finally making her way into the basement, and her shout of “FBI!” brought the rest of the team running.

Spencer kept his gaze trained on Theo, watching the team hurry down the stairs through his peripheral vision. In the corner of the basement stood what was left of the Believers—only four men and two women looked on.

“Put down the knife,” Emily ordered.

“No,” Theo replied, keeping the blade where it was. “He has to die.”

“I can’t,” Spencer replied, his words slightly strangled by the knife pressed against his throat. “It’s not just because you’re unable to, Theo, but you can’t kill me. It won’t work.”

That got Theo’s attention. “What won’t work?”

Good question. “You know,” Spencer murmured, hoping he sounded convincing enough.

The grip on the blade tightened. “This is what God wants.”

“God—” Emily started to say, but Spencer quieted her with a small gesture of his hand—the wiggling of fingers, telling her to _wait_ in sign language.

“God doesn’t want you to kill me,” Spencer said. “I’ve seen it. That’s what I saw, I saw... _why_ I didn’t die yet. I can’t be killed in the name of the Lord.”

“Why not?” Theo wondered.

Emily was wondering that herself.

Their questions were answered when Spencer leaned forward in his seat a little and said, ever so quietly, “Because I’m a sinner.”

* * *

Theo kept his hold on Spencer’s collar. “We’re all sinners, Spencer.”

“Not like this,” Spencer replied, his voice low. “Do you know what I do?” Without waiting for a reply, he swallowed and forced out, “I can read men’s minds.”

In the distance, the crowd of Believers shifted, murmuring anxiously.

“You can read men’s minds?” Theo scoffed. “That’s just profiling.”

“No, profiling is all behavior,” Spencer argued, “I’m telling you—I’m the devil’s army and you can’t stop me. I can’t be an angel for you because if you do, _It_ will be set in motion.”

Meanwhile, Emily sucked in a small breath, suddenly understanding where this came from.

“A man like you has done this before,” Spencer murmured, trying to sound menacing enough, “or at least, he tried to. Do you know what happened? He did everything—burning fish, Russian Roulette—he even tried to bury me alive. But he couldn’t, because it was not the time. You said so yourself—three is the number, right? I was tortured by a father; he got nothing. I was held hostage by a son; he got nothing. And then there’s you—the spirit, the one we all thought was dead. I don’t know much about God, but I _do_ know probability, and since action precedes behavior, how do you think this will go for you when taking in the results of the other two times?”

“I am more than willing to die for my family,” Theo murmured.

“The family that nearly killed you?” Spencer countered. “The family that only kept you alive because of your power? Theo, the moment you kill me, and the moment you realize that nothing will change, they’re going to turn on you. That is, if my team doesn’t shoot you first. And they don’t want to, Theo.”

This made Theo hesitate. “They’re all I have,” he whispered.

“I know. But we can find someplace for you.”

“...There’s nothing for me.”

That sounded like an endgame. Spencer lifted his arms as high as the handcuffs would allow and made a move for Theo’s knife. Theo struggled, jerking back, and the Believers started to move forward but were quickly stopped by Emily’s threatening stance.

“You got a shot?” Luke muttered to JJ, but she shook her head.

Meanwhile, Spencer got one leg free of its restraints and swung forward, hitting Theo in the knee, but it didn’t do much. Theo lashed back, one hand around the knife and the other palm outstretched, and with one swift shove, the chair Spencer was in tilted and landed hard on its back.

“ _DON’T!”_ He heard someone shout, but it was hard over the ringing in his ears.

Spencer jerked himself up, trying in vain to life the chair back to its upright position, but it was no use, and he panicked.

A muffled gunshot sent a warm shower of blood spattering his face, and someone started to unlock the handcuffs from his wrists, but all Spencer could do was stare at the single hanging light bulb and try to settle the pounding in his chest. It didn’t work.

His heartbeat grew louder and the ringing in his ears grew higher-pitched and Spencer tried to knock away the noise by hitting his head against the ground, again and again, and someone put their hands on his chest—bad idea, he was alive already and there was no need to do CPR and he couldn’t do it, he couldn’t do it, he didn’t have anything to confess, or did he?

Something wet spread out behind his head, sticky and tepid, staining the wooden floor and fanning out the hair behind him like a gory halo. Someone stood above him and someone else joined them. Then a third person.

Three.

Maybe Tobias was right. Maybe he didn’t kill all of them.

* * *

Theo shoved Spencer back in his chair and took a few stumbling steps back himself before bringing the knife to his throat.

“ _DON’T!”_ JJ shouted, but it was too late—a hose of arterial blood flew through the air and Theo fell to his knees, spluttering and choking for a few seconds before falling completely still.

“Reid, you good?” Matt called.

No answer, but before any of them could do anything about it, one of the Believers rushed forward to pry the knife from Theo’s hands and shot like a bullet towards JJ. Their efforts ended with a gunshot wound to his chest, and the rest of the Believers stayed where they were with their hands up.

While the team moved to make the arrests, Rossi bent down by Spencer and fumbled to undo the handcuffs tight around his wrists. With a click, they fell free, and soon enough, all the restraints had been undone, but Spencer didn’t make a move to get out of them.

“Reid?” Rossi asked, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Spencer, you okay?”

Spencer just sucked in a shaky inhale and held it.

“What is it?” Luke called, moving to stand by him. “Reid?” When Spencer just stared blankly at the ceiling, he furrowed his brow. “Reid, can you hear me? Spencer?”

Nothing. Emily moved by them now, crouching down and giving Spencer a light shake before glancing up and noticing the hanging lightbulb.

It all clicked.

“Get it up,” Emily said quietly, and then, sharper, she snapped at Luke, “the _chair_. Get him up, _now!”_

Confused, Luke did as he was told, reaching behind Spencer’s shoulders to tilt the chair back upright. As soon as the legs hit the floor, Spencer pitched forward with a small sob, rocketing into Emily and wrapping his arms around her.

“I didn’t—it’s—I’m not—”

Emily ran a hand up and down his back. “Don’t speak,” she soothed, “I’ve got you. It’s okay, I’ve got you.”

Spencer cried more openly now. “I woke up and I thought—”

“I know,” Emily shushed, “I know. It wasn’t the cabin. You killed him. He’s dead.”

“Oh,” Rossi breathed.

Spencer wrestled himself from Emily’s embrace suddenly, shooting to his feet and stumbling a little with a weak, “I need to get out of here.”

The team watched him rub his face harshly before shoving the cabin door open almost violently, racing out into the night. Luke made a move to follow him, but Rossi put a hand on his chest. Emily exhaled slowly.

“What’s wrong with Reid?” Luke murmured.

Emily enhanced an uncomfortable glance with JJ before she spoke up, hesitantly: “Do you know who Tobias Hankel is?”

* * *

Spencer took two steps outside the cabin and dropped to his knees with a harsh thud groping for empty air in his pockets.

_Not there not there not there not there. You’ve been clean for—since—_

Did Mexico count?

Spencer tucked his head between his knees and cried into the dirt.

_You killed him._

_You killed him._

And after the silence came the inevitable,

_Do you think I’ll get to see my mom again?_

Spencer rolled back into the dirt and stared up at the stars, wondering what it felt like to be buried alive, to be buried in rubble, to be buried amongst the hyoid bones of people he passed off as simply missing.

_Why didn’t you see it?_

He let his head loll to the side and traced a small circle in the dirt with his fingers, trying to suck in a breath without smelling the fish guts that continued to burn behind his eyes.

It didn’t work.

But it faded some.

_Father. Son. Holy Spirit._

_And you._

_What are you?_

Not an angel, that’s for sure. 

_We’re all sinners._

Pride, greed, lust, envy, gluttony, wrath, sloth. Technically, every crime Spencer has solved was committed because of one of the sins. And what about the people who worked with him—what sort of sin was tainting their own minds?

Did he want to know?

Spencer raised himself back to a slumped kneel and eventually, he brought himself back to his feet. It was a bit like deja vu; the night was cold and the leaves cracked underfoot, and Spencer tilted his head to the heavens and crossed his arms, tucking his shaky fists under his armpits.

And just like last time, no one went after him.

But unlike last time, Spencer reached into his pocket and slid out Theo’s knife.

He didn’t do anything, but he thought about it—in fact, he had spent three months thinking about it in prison.

Three months, three years ago. Three again.

What would he see this time, if he went through? What happened if Spencer pushed past the warmth? 

He decided not to find out just yet.

Someone’s footsteps crunched the leaves behind him, and without caring who it was, Spencer turned around and hugged them.

Behind Emily’s back, he watched the knife. And he twirled it. And he let the tip of the blade rest on her spine.

_God’s will._

But he didn’t go through with it.

He just thought about it.

Emily seemed to be thinking about it too, because she 

_Can look inside men’s minds_

pulled away and gave Spencer a sad smile before turning back to the cabin.

Spencer tapped the knife against his leg—once, twice, three times—before tucking it back into his pocket.

He thought about it some more, and the ideas made him scared.

But only for a moment.

Above, the stars dissolved, one by one. Spencer turned back to his family and surrendered the blade to Emily before stepping back outside.

And again, he was alone with the burden of thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe Spencer would be better off as an atheist.


	11. They Look So Pretty When They Bleed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s a mole in the precinct on a case in Seattle. But they realize it too late.

“This doesn’t make any sense,” Reid muttered.

JJ moved to stand beside him in front of the geological profile, silently passing over a coffee. “What?”

“This UNSUB,” Reid explained, tapping the map, “from the previous locations, abduction sites, and dump sites, he _should_ have killed his next victim just…” He drew his finger across the page until it landed on a small road. “Here. But there’s been nothing, even though we already know he’s devolving.”

“A devolving UNSUB is a scary one,” JJ replied worriedly. “He gets unpredictable.”

“But this isn’t disorganized,” Spencer pointed out. “We didn’t release anything to the media, we didn’t do anything, say anything, that could throw him off. Even the patrols have remained the same.”

“The environment is as controlled as it can be,” JJ agreed, furrowing her brow. “So why is the victimology changing so badly?”

“The victimology, but not the M.O.,” Spencer noted, skimming a file on the table. “We know he’s a malignant narcissist, possibly imprisoned, sociopath...not a sadist, but why is he...?”

The rest of his sentence trailed off as Spencer retreated into his head again, thinking over things at rapid speed. JJ moved back to the table and took a swig of coffee before poring over her own files.

“Agent Reid?”

The deputy was at the door opening. Spencer didn’t spare them a glance; he was too absorbed in sticking a red marker in his mouth and scribbling on the map with a blue one. JJ put down her own work and stood up to greet the deputy.

“Deputy Pritzker?”

Pritzker smiled. “Agent Jareau, right?”

“What do you need?”

“I was actually hoping that Agent Reid over there could give me a hand with some files.”

JJ glanced back to where he was pointing—Spencer was currently either having an aneurysm or coming close to a realization, so she blocked Prtizer’s view of him and offered, “Dr. Reid’s a little busy right now with the geo profile. Could I help?”

“Doctor, huh?” Pritzker mused, giving JJ a once-over. After a moment, he said, “Alright, then. There’s just some back files I need help sortin’ through. Randall said that our UNSUB could have killed a couple back in ‘99. I just wanted to see if he’s right.”

“Alright. Let’s go.”

The two exited the room just as Spencer jolted back into reality with a panicked expression on his face. Bounding around the room, he hurried across the precinct and stopped by one of the cubicles, opening and closing its files in a frenzy. One of the officers leaned over with a glare.

“Why’re you messing with—”

“Where is this man?” Spencer demanded, shoving a photo into her face.

“He was just here. I think he might’ve left to help out your pals at the latest—”

Spencer didn’t wait for her to finish; he stumbled back to the conference room, slammed the door shut, and locked it before pulling out his phone. “Rossi, you need to get over here right now. I think the UNSUB is coming to you.”

“ _Spencer, you need—”_

“I know, I know! I’m in the conference room. We have to figure out where he is.”

_“Spencer, we know who it is. And where.”_

“He’s not with you?”

_“He’s with you.”_

* * *

“Reid’s right,” Rossi remarked as he stood up. “This scene doesn’t fit.”

“Well, Morgan and Kate are still driving out to the Garrett house,” Hotch murmured, flipping his phone off. “It’s almost like he saw us coming. Did the press get anything?”

“Not a peep, for once,” Rossi replied with a shrug. “What does that mean?”

As if on cue, Hotch’s phone rang.

“Garcia, do you—”

_“He’s in the precinct.”_

“What?”

_“Sir, I found your UNSUB,”_ Garcia explained hurriedly, her voice high with distress. _“Remember that hunch of our Chocolate Thunder’s earlier? The possibility that our UNSUB is able to get tips from the inside?”_

Hotch sighed. “We have a mole.”

_“Not just a mole, sir. I think our killer is in the force.”_

“What?”

_“Mhm.It’s...I looked through the...it all added, your guy, and—oh, my God, who’s at the precinct?”_

“Reid and JJ,” Hotch replied, gesturing at Rossi to pull up his phone. “Garcia, who is he?”

_“Jeffery Pritzker. The deputy.”_

* * *

“So,” Pritzker commented, as he and JJ spread a dozen files on the table in the back room, “how long have you been with the Bureau?”

“Well, I’ve been with the BAU for about ten years now,” JJ replied without looking up. “I’ve only been a profiler for three, though.”

“My. I’ve been in the department for nearly fourteen years myself. Been deputy for eight.”

JJ nodded, flipping a file open. “That’s impressive.”

“It is, isn’t it?”

The words were casual, but the way Prtizker said it sent a chill up JJ’s spine. Trying not to look nervous, and brushing away the thought, she said, “I don’t see any file from 1999 relating to this case. Maybe your friend was thinking of another year?”

“Maybe,” Prtizker echoed lowly, moving to stand behind her.

JJ’s phone rang, but she didn’t need to answer the call to know what it was about. Exhaling, slowly, keeping her gaze straight ahead, JJ hoped that she could get out of the room or shout before Prtizker could make a move—would they hear her from all the way back here?

Before JJ could make a move, Prtizker wrapped his arm around her throat.

* * *

“We can’t start a panic or he’ll start shooting,” Hotch murmured to Rossi upon entering the precinct. “I called Kate; she and Morgan will stay at the home. Prtizker is definitely working alone.”

Rossi nodded. “He’s so narcissistic that he thinks he can get away with it—and he gets off on us being caught off guard. He wants that control.”

“We can’t give it to him. You go to Reid and I’ll look for JJ; let’s locate Prtizker before he makes his move.”

But the conference room was empty, and neither Reid nor JJ was anywhere to be seen.

Rossi pulled out his phone and Reid picked up, but there was no greeting on the other end of the line.

“Reid?” he asked tentatively.

Heavy breathing.

“Spencer? Are you—”

_“Women’s bathroom.”_

Rossi waved Hotch over and they moved to the women’s bathroom as quickly as they could without causing an uproar. On the way there, Hotch leaned over to whisper in one of the officer’s ears, and with a small nod, she led some of the others outside. A few stayed, drawing their guns and following Hotch.

Rossi knocked on the door. “Spencer?”

No response. After a moment, Hotch nodded for Rossi to enter, and he did so cautiously.

“Get. Back,” Prtizker growled.

In the center of the bathroom, Spencer and Prtizker were standing opposite each other, each aiming their guns. Rossi drew his and pointed it at Pritzker.

“Where’s JJ?” Spencer asked quietly.

Prtizker just smirked.

“Answer him,” Rossi snarled, taking a step closer.

“She never saw me coming,” Prtizker crowed. “I can give you a riddle, if you like.”

“We’re not here to play games, Prtizker,” Rossi spat. “If you survive this, there’s going to be severe repercussions—if you decide to cooperate, the DA can push a lesser charge.”

Instead of being nervous, a smile spread across Prtizker’s face. “ _‘If_ you survive.’ That’s funny.”

Spencer swallowed, visibly trying to keep himself together. “Where is she?”

“She your girlfriend or something?”

“ _She_ is a federal agent,” Rossi shot back. “Listen, Jeffery, there are a whole lot of people outside whose trigger fingers are getting itchy. Why don’t you drop the gun before they decide to storm in?”

Prtizker snorted. “I got seventeen bullets in this gun. How many of your men do you think I can take out with a single bullet?”

Spencer put his finger on the trigger. “Drop the gun and tell us where to find her.”

“It was gonna be you, y’know?” Prtizker sneered. “Figured you were easiest to lure away until—what’s her name?— _JJ_...decided to step in. Look at you: no vest, six bullets, and the weakest stance I’ve seen since my days in the Academy. If you shoot, you’re gonna hit me in the kneecap, son. What’s a PhD gonna do about that while your little friend bleeds out?”

Rossi brought his head to the comm on his shoulder. “Hotch, JJ’s somewhere in here. Have some officers standing by. He’s gonna go down fighting.”

_“I’m on it. EMTs are on the way.”_

“I can hit a T-zone shot from just about a hundred feet away,” Pritzker went on. “I can—”

“You _can_ blitz a woman while she has her back turned,” Rossi interrupted. “You _can_ murder people along the highway when they trust you. And why? Because you’re a coward, Jeffery. You aren’t satisfied with the pathetic guy your colleagues see you as, so you paint yourself as a hero when—”

_“No one is getting out of here!”_ Prtizker growled.

Spencer flinched, then took a step forward. “Put it down, Jeffery. We can tell them that you helped—you can really save lives, now.”

Prtizker hesitated for a moment, then decided on a simple “No.”

All three of them fired at once.

Only one of them hit the floor. 

* * *

“JJ!”

“Agent Jareau!”

“Jennifer!”

Hotch cleared another room in the precinct, moving towards the file cabinet. JJ wasn’t answering any calls—neither on the phone nor from the shouting—and Hotch started to move towards the break room.

That was, until:

“H’tch? Hotch.”

“Over here!” Hotch called, moving towards the noise. 

Behind the door of the back file cabinet was a thick smear of blood that trailed through the hall and behind a door. Ignoring the twist in his gut, Hotch opened the door with another officer hot on his trail.

JJ was crunched up in the corner of the broom closet, bleeding steadily from a wound in her stomach. Hotch holstered his gun and ran over, throwing his hands over the gush.

“JJ,” he called, “Jennifer. Can you hear me?”

Her eyes were closed and her breathing was quiet, but JJ nodded.

“What happened?”

“Pr’tzker,” JJ wheezed, coughing around the bruises that were starting to form around her throat. “He’s after Sp’nce an’ he’s gonna—help him, pl’se, bef—”

“We know,” Hotch soothed, “we know, just keep still. We’re getting him. Just stay with me, okay? Medics are almost here.”

JJ nodded, opening her eyes a sliver. “M’sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry about. Put your hands on your stomach for me.”

JJ complied, albeit weakly, and the blood surged more, coating Hotch’s hands red and dripping onto the floor. A quick glance under JJ’s shirt revealed two deep, pulsing wounds in her abdomen, caused by what looked like gunshots. 

Hotch pressed down harder and JJ whimpered. “I’m sorry, but I have to put pressure on this.”

JJ nodded again. “Who’lse?”

“No one, no one. Reid and Rossi got there first.”

JJ sighed, a tear leaking from her eye. “Good.”

“Yeah. I called the EMTs. They should be here soon.”

Three gunshots permeated the silence and JJ cried out, struggling to sit up, but Hotch held her down by the shoulder.

“Don’t move. Just let me stop the bleeding.”

“Will,” JJ breathed, opening her eyes a sliver more, “Will. He’s—Henry’s gon’...H’tch, please, I want—”

Hotch shushed her. “Don’t try to talk. You can see Will soon. And Henry. It’s going to be okay.”

The gushing blood begged to differ.

Behind him, the officer from before was shouting into her radio for medical assistance, then tapped Hotch. “They’re ten minutes.”

“She doesn’t _have_ ten minutes,” Hotch shot back, ignoring the crack in his voice. “She’s—where the _hell_ are they?”

One of JJ’s hands slipped from her stomach and closed around Hotch’s wrist. “I can’t—”

“What? You can’t what?”

JJ choked on a sob. “I can’t die.”

“You’re not going to die, just stay with me.”

“Who’s gon’...Henry’s...sorry, Aar—”

“Everything is going to be okay,” Hotch interrupted firmly, squeezing her hand tightly before returning to the pressure. “It’s going to be okay.”

JJ whined high in her throat. “Stop. Hurts.”

“I can’t,” Hotch whispered. “Just keep talking to me, okay?”

The whimpering faded, then stopped altogether.

“JJ, can you hear me?”

JJ didn’t respond, just stared at him with dull eyes.

“JJ.”

The hand on his wrist slackened.

 _“_ Jennifer.”

The bleeding stopped.

* * *

Pritzker fell down hard, bleeding from bullet wounds to the chest and the neck. A moment later, a few officers burst into the bathroom, but stopped abruptly when they saw that only their shooter had been hit.

“Guess he wasn’t as good of a shot as he said he was,” Rossi remarked. He made his way carefully forward, kicking Prtizker’s gun away and checking for a pulse.

Nothing.

Spencer kept his gaze on the ground for a moment before his head shot up. Without speaking, he pushed past the other officers and hurried to the conference room, one hand on his gun and the other shoving doors open.

“JJ? Hotch?”

In the distance, someone’s radio crackled, but before Spencer could investigate it, a pair of EMTs burst through the double glass doors of the station, an empty gurney in tow. Spencer followed them before a strong, metallic odor hit him like a wall.

The medics disappeared down the rear hallway, where a long, red carpet of blood led to a back file room.

“JJ?”

His chest felt tight and he couldn’t hear the sound of his feet sticking and up sticking to the floor. He didn’t know if he could stomach it, anyway.

Someone grabbed him before he could see what happened.

* * *

Hotch stepped back, his hands dripping crimson, and the EMTs went to work on JJ, barking diagnostics at each other and hurrying to prep her for transport. It was all strangely quiet, strangely methodical, until the thick silence was permeated by an uneven whine.

“JJ?”

Hotch turned around. In the doorway, Spencer lowered his gun, looking impossibly small for someone who had just stood their ground against a serial killer with a hero complex.

The heart monitor rattled, which sent the EMTs into a frenzy, cutting open JJ’s shirt and peeling the backs off a pair of sticky pads that they proceeded to slap onto her chest. Spencer took a stumbling step forward and the other officer— _Perez_ , Hotch could read now that he wasn’t busy—clapped him on the shoulder to push him back.

“JJ?” Spencer asked again, his voice high with distress. He glanced up at Hotch, his eyes wide. “What happened? JJ?”

Hotch just stared.

“Come on,” Perez muttered, leading Spencer out of the room, “give ‘em space, Doc.”

Spencer jerked forward, his voice cracking. “JJ? She—what?”

“Let’s go. It’s okay.”

“No, no, it’s—JJ! _JJ!”_

A robotic voice commanded everyone to _Clear_ , and JJ’s shoulders jerked a little with the shock, but the monitor didn’t change from its weak rhythm.

Spencer’s voice raised in volume, spiraling into panic. _“JJ!_ Let me— _JJ!”_

His foot slipped on the blood in the hallway and Perez caught him under his arms, struggling to haul him from the scene. Hotch watched them go, squeezing his eyes shut against the desperate sound of Spencer choking on the mucus in the back of his throat and the harsh slapping of Perez’s shoes sticking to the floor.

The EMTs crossed their hands over JJ’s chest again, before stepping back again, before returning again, before stepping back again. The AED ran four more shocks, then five.

“We got a sinus rhythm,” one of the medics announced. He turned to Hotch. “We’re gonna take her to Mercy, if you want to follow.”

Hotch nodded. “Is she going to be okay?”

“I can’t say.”

Hotch stepped aside and trailed the EMTs back into the precinct before stopping in the middle of the room, wiping his bloodied palms on his pants. Rossi pushed open the bathroom door and stopped abruptly upon seeing the ambulance pull out of the parking lot, and after a moment, Morgan and Kate rushed into the precinct.

“What the hell was that?” Morgan demanded. He took in Hotch’s state. “Was that JJ?”

“Where’s Prtizker?” Kate added.

“Prtizker’s dead,” Hotch said hollowly, fumbling for his keys. “We gotta go. Morgan, take Reid with you.”

Spencer was hunched over in a chair in the corner the precinct, hyperventilating through his sobs as Perez crouched in front of him with one hand on his knee. Without bothering to say anything, Morgan jogged over and grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket before raising him up and half-dragging him to the doors. 

Kate and Rossi piled into the other car without another word, and Hotch started to move to the driver’s seat before Kate nudged him back, tossing a pack of wipes from the glove compartment before stepping on the gas, trying to keep herself together.

Hotch smudged absentmindedly at the blood on his hands and his shirt, before giving up entirely. Rossi glanced back at him from the passenger seat, his face set in poorly masked emotion.

For once, Hotch couldn’t hide his fear.

* * *

Will burst through the hospital doors, starting towards the front desk before noticing the others and sprinting towards them. “What happened?” The team just stared. “Where’s JJ? They said she was…” He glanced at Spencer. “Spence? What did he do to her?”

Spencer just stared, his mouth slightly parted, before he turned around and made a beeline for the bathroom. No one followed.

Kate grabbed Will by the arm. “Come with me,” she said quietly.

Will nodded absently, looking terrified, and they disappeared down the hall.

“Any word yet?” Hotch asked Rossi.

He shrugged. “She’s still in surgery.”

The team gave each other empty stares, before, one by one, they settled into the chairs in the waiting room, barely acknowledging the blood coating Hotch’s sleeves or the sound of Reid retching in the bathroom.

An hour passed. Then three.

A doctor stepped through the doors. “Jareau?”

Hotch shot to his feet. “Did she survive?”

The doctor opened his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DUN DUN DUUUUN!
> 
> Did she survive? Did she not? It’s up to you!
> 
> Because I didn’t know how to end it and didn’t have the heart to go through with either option. A couple people recommended JJ whump and it became...a _little_ more intense than planned.


	12. Psych 101

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spencer’s acting different, and it can’t just be about Tobias. Morgan calls someone who can help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompts: defiance / struggling / crying  
> Spoilers for s2

When Spencer swept his paperwork off his desk in frustration, Morgan decided that he finally needed to do something.

“What’s with you lately?” he asked, setting his own files aside.

Spencer swiveled in his chair, looking annoyed. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve been acting kind of strange,” Morgan explained, his brow furrowed. “Everything okay?”

Spencer just shrugged halfheartedly, the bitterness coming off him in waves. He turned back to his desk, his voice faint. “Everything’s fine.”

Everything was _not_ fine, Morgan realized, just as Spencer snapped his pencil and jerked out of his seat moments later, looking violent and stalking in a small circle behind his desk.

“What the hell—” Morgan started to exclaim, but it quickly tapered off when Spencer rubbed his hands up and down his face and went abruptly still. “Reid?”

 _“Morgan?”_ Spencer mimicked, dropping his arms to glare with the ferocity of a wet cat.

It still made Morgan bristle. “Why’re you being so weird?”

Spencer just scoffed. “Tired. I’m going home for the night.”

“Reid, you gotta—”

But Spencer had already pushed the door open and stumbled out of the bullpen. Morgan watched him go—confusion was an understatement—and took off towards Gideon’s office.

“What’s going on with Reid?” he demanded, without bothering to knock. Gideon just shrugged. “Come on, man, I know you know something. Does he look normal to you?”

“No,” Gideon replied simply, his demeanor unchanging. “And I don’t expect him to be normal, not since Tobias—”

“This isn’t _just_ about Tobias,” Morgan insisted. “So what’s up?”

Gideon sighed. “Whatever’s going on with Spencer...don’t push it. I’m sure he’ll resolve it on his own. It’s been a rough year for him.”

“It’s been a rough year for _all_ of us! I don’t see JJ flipping her shit in—”

Gideon held a hand up to silence him. “Reid’s brain works differently than ours.”

“Yeah, I _know_ , Gideon. But it’s weird.”

“You’re right, it is,” Gideon replied with another shrug. “But there’s nothing we can do. Just let him cool off, Derek; he’s okay.”

Morgan pursed his mouth before he could spit back a reply, then nodded stiffly and left the room. But the moment he was outside, he flipped open his phone.

_“Derek? What is it?”_

“Hey,” Morgan replied, keeping his voice low, “I need you to head to Reid’s place.”

_“What? Why?”_

“Something’s up. He...it’s a long story, but he got kidnapped, and ever since then, he’s been—”

_“Wait, he got kidnapped? Derek—”_

“Just—I’m sure he’ll tell you everything, but right now, he needs someone and he won’t talk to any of us.”

The person on the other line hesitated, then finally said, _“I’ll be there.”_

* * *

Someone was knocking on his door.

Spencer felt mellow—high, actually, but he didn’t admit that part—and the Dilaudid coursing through his system made his limbs loose and his brain soft.

He opened the door and gaped. “Elle?”

Elle brought her hand up and slapped him across the cheek in response.

Spencer’s head snapped to the side, but he didn’t bring it back. In fact, he didn’t really feel the pain from the slap until a minute or so passed. Gently, he touched his fingers to his cheek before turning back to a very pissed-off Elle.

The surprise came rushing back. “What are you doing here?”

“You’re high,” Elle stated.

A cold rush of dread made his spine tingle. “It’s not—I’m not—“

“Yes, you are,” Elle shot back, letting herself into his apartment. “Got any wine?”

Spencer followed, tripping over his feet. “I don’t—um, what? I don’t drink?”

Elle’s eyebrows skyrocketed. “Oh, so you’re a goody two-shoes when it comes to _alcohol—”_

“Elle, please—”

“—But it’s fine to stick _opioids_ up your ass—”

“—I’m not—what are you doing, Elle? Stop it—”

“Just _shut up_ and let me speak!”

Spencer closed his mouth. Elle sat down on the couch heavily, tossing her purse onto the floor. “Sit down; you look like you’re gonna pass out.” Spencer did. “Now tell me about your abduction and I’ll tell you why I’m here.”

Spencer glanced down. “There was this, um...UNSUB. With multiple personalities: Charles, his father; Raphael, an archangel; and him. Tobias. He had been killing people and leaving Bible passages. We didn’t know—we thought Tobias was just a witness at first, but, um...he took me. For three days. I chased him out into the cornfield—JJ and I had split up—and he—” He paused, sucking in a jittery breath, but Elle stayed silent. “H-He took my gun and knocked me out, and when I woke up, I was in a—I was in a sh-shed, and I couldn’t—he thought I was a s-sinner, but that was just Charles, and Raphael told me to ch-choose, and Tobias—he _drugged_ me, and he just wanted to see his _mom_ and I k-killed him and it’s—”

“Spencer,” Elle said softly, grabbing his shoulder, but Spencer jerked back and coughed, choking on the mucus in his throat.

“It’s—ever since then, I—I _took_ it, the Dilaudid, the drugs, because I w-want to just—I want everything to _shut up_ and it’s just so—peaceful, and I don’t—it doesn’t hurt, and—”

“Spencer,” Elle repeated, more firmly this time. “Take a breath.”

He did. Elle grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him into a hug, and Spencer couldn’t help but melt into the touch. Vaguely, he thought that he was probably getting snot and tears on Elle’s shirt, but she didn’t say anything about it.

“Why are you here?” Spencer sniffled.

Elle dodged the question. “You got an ice pack for that cheek, _niño?”_

“...I have vegetables.”

A few moments later, Elle and Spencer had moved back to the couch; Spencer donning a bag of frozen broccoli and Elle stretching out on the cushions like she lived there.

“You need a haircut,” she said.

“I don’t really have time to go to the barber or anything,” he replied quietly.

“That’s okay, then. I guess it’s kind of cute.”

“Thanks.”

After an awkward beat, Elle finally said, “Morgan called me. Your whole team’s been worried sick about you.”

“Who knows?” Spencer mumbled, wincing against the ice on his face. When Elle didn’t respond, he asked again, “Who told you?”

“No one,” Elle admitted quietly. “No one knows.”

Spencer blinked. “No one?”

Elle shook her head, looking suddenly hesitant. “If I hadn’t come...were you going to tell anyone? Were you ever going to get help?”

Now it was Spencer’s turn to pause. “...I don’t know.” His mouth twisted. “Gideon found out.”

“What’d he say?”

“‘Take a sick day.’”

“Spencer, that’s not okay.”

“Isn’t it?” Spencer dropped his gaze, trying to keep the tears from falling. He failed. “I brought this upon myself, Elle. No one else deserves to have to deal with this. I...I _know_...what it’s like to be around someone you don’t—that you don’t know how to help.”

“But they _can_ help,” Elle argued.

Spencer sighed shakily. “I’ll lose my job.”

“Strauss doesn’t have to know, Reid; they can keep a secret. And besides—what’s more important: your job or your life?”

Spencer just shrugged. Condensation from the broccoli was running cold water down his arm, and Elle took the bag away and set it to leak onto the table.

“Come here,” she ordered. Spencer scooted closer. “Give me another hug, _niño._ It’s been a while since I saw that pretty face of yours.”

She wrapped an arm around him and he leaned into it, resting his head on her shoulder.

“What do you need?” Elle asked quietly, after a moment.

Spencer swallowed. “Just...be here?”

“Of course.”

An hour passed, then another. When the clock struck eleven, Elle reached out and took Spencer’s bag off the table, fumbling around until her hands closed around the Dilaudid.

“I’m taking all of it,” she declared, and her tone implied no argument. “Cold turkey.” Spencer just nodded, looking so sad that Elle softened her voice. “You can do it, Spencer. I’ll be here the whole time. But first,” she added, holding up the syringe, “this has got to go, and I’m going to talk to Gideon about that sick day.”

“Thank you,” Spencer said quietly, keeping his eyes on the table.

Elle just smiled, keeping her eyes on him as she exited the apartment. The moment she was behind the closed door, however, she pulled out her phone, all sympathy gone for the man that answered the call: _“Jason Gideon.”_

“You have a lot of explaining to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elle is a queen and should be treated better than she is  
> Thanks for coming to my TedTalk.


	13. I Think I’ve Broken Something

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a tough case, Luke and Matt take Spencer out for drinks. It doesn’t end well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: broken down / broken bones  
> Spoilers for s08e12 “Zugzwang”

Everyone was exhausted when the jet touched down at Quantico, and rightfully so—the case hadn’t ended well. By the time they figured out their UNSUB’s location, she had killed her last victim and then herself; the team had arrived too late.

Spencer seemed more devastated than the rest of them. Matt knew that he struggled with compartmentalization—obviously, it was hard for him to forget—but something about seeing their UNSUB dead next to her victim with bullet wounds in their heads must have struck something deep—deep enough to land him throwing up behind their crime scene for four minutes straight.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Matt muttered to Luke, as they made their way to Spencer’s desk. “Something tells me he’s not up for drinks after what he just did to his stomach.”

Luke just shrugged. “I can’t leave him like this. He looks like a kicked puppy.”

“A hangover’s gonna make him look a little worse than a kicked puppy,” Matt pointed out.

“Who says he’s gonna get a hangover? We can watch him.”

Spencer was bent over his desk, starting at a point on the wall and rubbing his thumb absently over a book tucked into his lap. Despite Matt’s concern, Luke stepped into his field of vision.

“Hey Reid,” he said, his voice surprisingly gentle, “Matt and I are heading over to O’Keefe’s. Wanna hit a few drinks with us?”

Spencer dragged his gaze from the ground, his eyes slightly unfocused. “Sure.”

“Perfect,” Matt replied, trying to keep his voice light. “Kristy needs a night off. I’m in.”

Spencer got up from his seat and, without a word, he walked slowly to the elevators. Matt and Luke followed.

As the doors closed, Spencer announced quietly, “I want to get drunk.”

Luke’s eyebrows skyrocketed. “You _what?”_

“I want to get drunk,” Spencer repeated, keeping his eyes forward. “I’ve never...I understand the amount of alcohol my body can take is around—”

Matt clapped him on the shoulder. “We can do that. Just keep it on the downlow, okay? Just a guys’ night out.”

Spencer nodded, the smallest smile twitching the corner of his lips. “Guys’ night out.”

* * *

Spencer was a happy kind of drunk.

“He’s not going to stay that way for long,” Matt warned him, as Spencer ogled at his empty glass and scribbled something unintelligible onto a napkin. “He’s gonna crash any second.”

“Enjoy the moment,” Luke murmured back, in complete awe. “Who orders Cabernet at a bar?”

Spencer slid the napkin across the counter to a gruff, Marine-type man who looked like he cried red, white, and blue—if he cried at all. “Here ya’ go.”

“What the hell?” the guy muttered, squinting at the napkin.

“S’a function,” Spencer explained, his words jumbled, “of a...my drink. Majored in chemistry—no, I’m a...what? Doesn’t matter.” He smirked. “The, um...d’you know what alcohol does to your liver? I like my liver. Like my brain, too—I have a...I’m a big brain. Hopefully.”

Luke tried not to choke.

“You like it?” Spencer continued, pushing the napkin closer in earnest.

The man furrowed his brow. “How long have you been here?”

Spencer frowned, jerking his watch up. “Half hour. Can’t read it.” He pointed to Luke and Matt. “Don’t tell anyone, but my friends are there.”

“Luke,” Matt groaned, as the man grabbed Spencer by the collar of his jacket and hauled him over, “you said we’d only get him buzzed.”

“I’m not the one with the PhD in chemistry,” Luke replied, unable to hide the laugh bubbling from his throat. “We’re not big brains, Matt.”

Spencer and the man stopped in front of them. “This your boy?”

“Yes, sir,” Luke replied, hooking an arm around Spencer’s. “This isn’t really his scene, as you can tell.”

“My _scene,”_ Spencer crooned, resting his head on Luke’s shoulder. “Thi’feel’s... _so_ weird.”

“Lightweight?” the man guessed sympathetically.

“Understatement,” Matt replied with a tight smile. “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

“I hafta’ pee,” Spencer announced. He frowned. “Or vomit.”

Matt gave him a pat on the back, setting his drink on their table. “Okay, then. Bathroom?”

“ _No,”_ Spencer whined, “don’...don’ _pressure_ me. I can do it on my own.”

“Alright. Holler if you need us.”

* * *

Spencer stuck his face in the sink and ran the faucet on warm. God knew how many pathogens and deadly bacteria were covering everything, but the thought dissolved as soon as the water touched his skin.

“Whatcha’ got there?”

Spencer glanced up to see someone peering down into his bag.

“Whassat?” the man repeated, reaching in and plucking out a book.

A book as in _the_ book.

“Gimme back,” Spencer slurred, grabbing for _The Narrative of John Smith,_ but the man held it out of reach, grinning.

“This a diary?”

“It’s my _book.”_

“Well, it’s _my_ book now,” the man crowed.

Without thinking, Spencer reared back his fist. 

He doesn’t remember anything after that.

* * *

Upon hearing a scream, Matt and Luke entered the bathroom to be greeted by the sight of Spencer getting the absolute pulp beaten out of him.

“Whoa, _whoa!”_ Luke shouted, grabbing the man currently slamming his friend’s head into the tile wall. “Break it up! _Hey!”_

Much to his surprise, Spencer jerked forward, swinging his arms with surprisingly decent form. “Give it back!”

“I ain’t got nothing!” the man hollered, though the bulge in his coat suggested otherwise. His eye was swollen and there was blood leaking from a split lip, but unfortunately, it looked like he had the upper hand for most of the brawl.

After a minor struggle, Matt was able to present the book back to Spencer, who brought it to his chest and dripped red on the cover from where his nose was gushing blood. Luke shoved the man roughly out the door and turned back to Spencer with his arms out, not sure of what to do.

“What the hell was that?” he settled on asking first.

Spencer leaned back against the wall and slid down to a sitting position, smiling slightly through half-lidded eyes. “I won.”

“Sure you did,” Matt replied, supporting him to the ground. “Put your head forward? Yeah, that looks broken,” he murmured to Luke.

“Took m’book,” Spencer explained clumsily, leaning forward and allowing Matt to press a wad of toilet paper against his nose. His eyes crossed and he giggled. “Whassat?”

“You broke your nose,” Matt explained. “Did you hurt anything else?”

Spencer shook his head and winced. “Dizzy.”

“I bet. Can you stand?”

After a bit of coaxing, Matt and Luke were able to haul their severely intoxicated friend into the former’s car. Spencer looked pretty mellow despite looking like Carrie at the prom, and as Matt started the car he closed his eyes and sagged into Luke, giving him a lopsided grin.

“How’re you holding up?” Matt called. Spencer gave him a weak thumbs-up. “Okay, champ. Almost home.”

“Why don’t you tell me about that book while you’re at it?” Luke offered.

Spencer glanced down and wiped the blood from the cover. “It’s my girlfriend’s.”

“Your _girlfriend?”_ Luke asked, amusement lining his voice. 

“Yeah. She died,” Spencer added bluntly.

Luke’s smile dropped. The car slowed down a little bit.

“Are you serious?” Matt asked quietly.

Spencer nodded, his weight growing. “She...I tried, Luke.” A few tears ran down his face, cutting diluted lines into the blood starting to dry on his cheek. “I tried. But it...hm. Too late. Sh’said bye before— _before_ -before. Y’know?” He sighed. “‘Bye. Love you’. I didn’...I shoulda’ said it.”

“I’m sure you did everything you could,” Luke managed, after a beat.

“No, I di’n’t,” Spencer replied woozily. “Shoulda’...why don’ I ever say it? I wanna say goodbye.”

“To who?”

“Everyone. B’fore they go.”

Matt put the car into park and came around the side. Spencer spilled out of the door, a floppy pile of limbs, and Matt slid one arm around his waist and pulled Spencer’s own arm over his shoulder.

As Luke and Matt shuffled up the stairs and dug through Spencer’s pockets to find his apartment key, Spencer remained quiet, lost in the muddled thoughts swimming through his head. He was too out of it to be of much use; Matt deposited him on the couch and ran a towel under the faucet before passing it to Luke and searching the apartment for an aspirin.

“Wanna sleep,” Spencer slurred, the ghost of a smirk still on his face. “Think I drank too much.”

“Way too much,” Luke agreed, wiping the blood off his face. “Next time we play it safe, okay? No more...whatever fancy wine you got going on. You do realize that beer and shots are the regular?”

Spencer reached out with one hand and squished Luke’s face. “I’m not regular.”

“That’s for sure,” Luke replied, bringing Spencer’s hand back to his lap. “Get some rest. You’re gonna have one hell of a headache tomorrow.”

“Yessir,” Spencer mumbled. His head lolled sideways, swiveling on its neck, before settling against the back of the couch. “Bye. Love you.”

Luke bit his lip. “We’re not going anywhere.”

“Me neither. But jus’n case.”

“Okay,” Luke agreed softly, giving him a pat on the knee. “Love you, too, Reid.”

After a minute, Spencer finally gave into sleep, and his smile lingered—but maybe, Luke concurred, he wasn’t such a happy kind of drunk after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS STARTED OUT CUTE AND FUNNY I SWEAR


	14. Breathe In, Breathe Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What if Garcia hadn’t been there when Baylor had tried to administer the carbenicillin?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: oxygen mask  
> Spoilers for s09e24 “Demons”

The hospital was settling down again; the panic from Garcia’s fire alarm stunt subsiding. Garcia herself was lounging exhaustively in a stiff chair next to Spencer’s bed, and the latter winced at the throbbing pain in his neck.

Garcia noticed. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Spencer breathed, brushing her off, “just really tired.”

“Of course. Get some sleep,” Garcia added with a small smile. “Are you okay by yourself a little bit? I’m going to get us water.”

“I’m okay. Thank you.”

With a final squeeze of his shoulder, Garcia gave Spencer a reassuring smile before heading through the doorway. On her way out, one of the nurses passed by, murmuring something to her about meds and scans before she gave him a thumbs-up and disappeared into the hallway.

Spencer rolled his head to the side as the nurse lingered by his bed, taking his vitals. He was too ready to fall asleep, but something kept him awake a little longer—a little twist in his stomach that was hard to ignore.

“What’s that?” he mumbled, squinting against the harsh lighting.

“Post-op antibiotics,” the nurse replied. His tag read Greg Baylor. “Any pain, dizziness, nausea?”

“No pain,” Spencer replied carefully, his eyes still fixed on the vials. “What antibiotics? I had some earlier.” After inspection, the twist in his gut turned to a cold rush of fear. “That’s carbenicillin.”

“Don’t worry, Doc, it’s not a narcotic.”

“No, um—I’m allergic to beta lactams. I can’t have that.”

Baylor’s smile was almost condescending. “Not in your chart.”

“Isn’t it?” Spencer peered over at the clipboard, and to his surprise, there was nothing on it. He swallowed. “Um, either way—could you give me a substitute? I can go into anaphylaxis; it’s pretty severe.”

Baylor measured out a syringe. “I understand.” Despite this, he started to prepare the IV.

“I don’t think you do,” Spencer whispered.

Baylor paused, giving him a cold, calm look; completely devoid of sympathy. “Believe me, Dr. Reid. I know exactly what I’m doing.”

The heart monitor started to rise as Spencer’s panic built. Noticing this, Baylor slid the oximeter off Spencer’s finger and started to move for the electrodes on his chest. Before he could unstick them, however, Spencer reached out and slapped the syringe out of his hand. His gun was just a few feet away, in the visitor bag laying on the chair—

Baylor grabbed Spencer’s wrist and pinned it to his chest, sending a shooting pain rocketing up his neck and into his head. Spencer started to shout for help, but there was a hand over his mouth before he could do anything, pinching his nose shut.

And it _hurt._

“Calm down,” Baylor hissed into his ear, trying to keep the both of them quiet. “This’ll all be over soon. Just let it happen.”

Spencer squirmed, trying to kick out of the hold, but he was in too much pain to move. He tried to suck in a breath, but Baylor’s hands were firm, and the edges of his vision started to fold in on themselves.

Baylor pressed down harder. “Just—” He leaned over and stuck the syringe into the IV port. “—let me—” He pressed down on the plunger. “—there we go.”

It wasn’t carbenicillin.

Baylor retracted his grip, sighing to himself as he wiped the sweat off his face and started to uncap another vial. Confused, Spencer started reaching towards his gun, but found his arms too heavy to lift.

“Give that a moment,” Baylor said quietly, fixing another syringe into the port. “You won’t be in any pain, Dr. Reid, I’ll make sure of that.”

Spencer frowned, and attempted to ask— _What did you give me?_ —but his tongue was loose and thick in his mouth. He was more curious than panicked now, and his eyes wandered to the other side of the room on their own accord.

Baylor seemed to get the message. “Midazolam,” he explained. “You’re going to feel drowsy in a bit, but that’s okay. Just let yourself sleep; I’ll do the hard part.” He flashed a tight-lipped smile. “Hope I didn’t hurt you too badly. No one deserves to suffer.”

The medication hit all at once. Baylor pressed down on the second plunger, then unclamped the line.

This time, it was the right drug.

Spencer’s breathing hitched and caught in his throat, but his thoughts faded out before he had the opportunity to be scared.

* * *

They figured out that McGreggor’s next move was going to be a distraction, but none of them could figure out what it was going to be. Hotch kept his eyes on the road as he thought about it, trying to rack his brain for anything that would—

“Hospital,” JJ realized, just as Hotch did. Her eyes widened. “Spence is in the hospital.”

“Call Garcia,” Hotch ordered, turning the car around. “Tell her to get out of there. McGreggor’s going to try and kill as many of us as he can.”

“But—”

“Do it, JJ!”

JJ pulled out her phone, eyes brimming. “Penelope, get out of there.”

_“What?”_

“Get out of there,” JJ repeated, her voice cracking. “We think the deputy’s after you and Spence. He’s still somewhere in the hospital—or there’s someone who’s working with him.”

_“Oh, my God. I need to get back to Reid.”_

“Garcia, just go!” Hotch called from the front seat, tightening his grip on the wheel. “Just go, we got him! If McGreggor’s there, he’ll try and kill you, too. Is there anyone there that looked suspicious? Anyone at all?”

_“No, it’s—”_ Garcia paused abruptly. When she spoke again, her voice was small. _“A nurse came into Reid’s room as I was leaving—um—Baylor. The name was Greg Baylor.”_

Hotch hung up the phone just as the SUV screeched to a halt outside the hospital. While JJ stayed with a very confused Dinah, he burst through the doors and hurried down the hallway with his gun drawn, not bothering to explain himself. “Greg Baylor! FBI!”

“Hotch?” Morgan was there. Baylor was not. “What’s going on?”

“Baylor, the nurse. Where is he?”

“I dunno, I was just—”

A shrill beeping from Spencer’s room jerked them both to attention.

Morgan got there first, searching for a pulse. “We need a doctor in here!”

“What happened?” Hotch demanded, pushing in front of Morgan to hold his hand under Spencer’s nose. There was no heat; no rush of air that indicated he was still breathing. “What’s wrong with him?”

Morgan’s eye caught the IV line, tangled into the bedsheets. “Get that out. Get that out of him!” he snapped, fumbling to get a hold of Spencer’s arm. His hand was clammy—feverishly so. “The last sheriff died of anaphylaxis, remember?”

At this moment, a few nurses ran into the room, searching for an explanation as they wheeled in a crash cart and fluttered over Spencer, unsure of what was happening.

“He’s in anaphylactic shock,” Hotch explained breathlessly, trying to keep his voice level. He mostly failed. “Just—help him.”

Morgan put a hand on Hotch’s chest and forced both of them to step back, though his eyes longed to do something. A few more staff members hurried into the room, barking jargon at each other and taking turns shouting things that Spencer would have explained to them.

“Epi!” someone called, brandishing a thick, orange pen. Someone tugged Spencer’s blanket aside and Hotch felt Morgan shiver in some sort of secondhand cold sensitivity beside him, but neither could tear their gazes away as the doctor jammed the EpiPen hard into Spencer’s thigh with a resounding click and hiss. The doctors faltered, waiting, scanning the monitors anxiously.

After a moment, everyone exhaled—Hotch had to assume it was a good thing, despite the pinched expressions that remained on the doctors’ and nurses’ faces. Their movements were more relaxed, albeit still quick, and Hotch let himself relax.

Until Spencer stopped breathing again.

One of the nurses cursed, scrambling to drop the bar on Spencer’s bed, and his body bounced a little bit with the movement. His face disappeared behind a mask that someone pumped the bag of, and another person reached under his gown to stick a couple AED pads onto his chest.

Suddenly uncomfortable, Hotch looked away. All of this felt too disrespectful, too invasive to watch—not like Spencer was actively caring about his modesty while he was going into cardiac arrest. A violent tremor ran down Hotch’s back as he remembered the one time Spencer had mentioned his allergy with that scientific curiosity of his—

... _Penicillin, carbenicillin, amoxicillin, cephalosporins—beta lactams are connected by a 3-carbon and 1-nitrogen ring. They’re usually substituted by vancomycin, but yes; to answer your question, I’m actually severely allergic!_

—and Emily had chuckled—

_You’re just one big enigma, aren’t you?_

—but now, no one was laughing. Spencer’s skin was dry and scary pale, a swollen tongue poking out of blue-tinted lips, but before Hotch could wonder if he was dead, a high whine pierced the air, and everyone stood back.

_Clear._ A small shock, like someone pulled an outlet from the wall too quickly. Spencer’s shoulders jerked slightly, and his head swiveled on his bandaged neck—Hotch tried not to think about what would happen if the stitches burst—but other than that, he stayed limp on the cot, and the heart monitor continued to stutter.

Someone gripped Spencer’s arm too hard and worked to set up another IV into the crook of his elbow; someone else tilted his chin up and worked harder on squeezing air into his lungs; a third person smoothed out the pads on his chest before nudging his colleagues to the side.

_Clear._ Another jolt. Morgan cracked his knuckles anxiously and exchanged a horrified look with Hotch, and the whole room sprang back into motion; pumping at his chest and injecting something into the new IV line.

The doctor working the ambu bag stopped suddenly, jerking back as Spencer convulsed under the pressure of air being forced into his lungs. She opened a drawer in the crash cart and unwrapped an oxygen mask, slipping it over his face before clipping the tube to a machine attached to the wall.

“Is he okay?” Morgan burst out.

One of the nurses smiled in his direction. Hotch let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, shaking his head and leaving the room. Morgan stayed.

“You should run a tox on his blood,” he advised, though he wasn’t sure anyone was listening. “He was unconscious before; I wanna make sure he wasn’t given anything…”

His words tapered off as a line of blood shot up one of the IV lines and dripped into a vial, which was promptly taken away from the room. One of the nurses unstuck the pads from his chest and tucked the blanket back over him, murmuring to someone else about transport.

Morgan’s phone rang, and a quick glance at his screen revealed thirteen missed calls.

Garcia was understandably terrified. _“What happened?”_

“Baylor must’ve given him something,” Morgan explained, trying to hide the shaking in his voice. “He went into anaphylaxis, but they were able to stabilize him. Where’s everyone?”

Garcia paused, probably to collect herself. After a moment, she said, _“Rossi and Blake were ambushed. But they’re okay. We’re getting Dinah to her son right now, but the deputy and the preacher are still in the wind.”_

“We’ll get them,” Morgan replied with a tired sigh. “I’m just...it was bad, Penelope.”

_“He’s our Boy Wonder,”_ Garcia replied, though she wasn’t as good as hiding her tears. _“Of course it was scary. But he’s going to be okay, right?”_

“Right.”

_“Go to him. I’ll take care of the others.”_

Derek smiled. “I love you, Penelope.”

_“Aw, to each their own. Now go,”_ she added, _“really. He gets scared when he wakes up alone.”_

Morgan followed the doctors into the hallway, feeling drained. “Hey, Hotch?”

Hotch wasn’t there.

“Hotch?”

Two gunshots echoed through the hospital, sending everyone into a panic. Morgan didn’t run, though; rather, he unholstered his weapon and calmly followed the noise to a broom closet, where Hotch was pushing Baylor outside in handcuffs.

Normally, Morgan would be angry. But now, he just asked, “Why’d you do it, man?”

Baylor’s mouth twisted in what could either be malice or sadness. “He didn’t feel any pain.”

“He almost died. You proud of yourself?”

Baylor just shrugged.

* * *

“Deja vu,” Spencer mumbled as he woke up, his voice muffled by the oxygen mask over his face.

Alex glanced up from her book, a smile spreading across her face. “Hey, there. How are you feeling?”

“Like I went into ventricular fibrillation,” Spencer deadpanned, keeping his eyes closed. A small smile spread across his face. “M’on _so_ many drugs right now and I don’t even remember why.”

“Well, at least you’re not allergic to any of them,” Alex pointed out warmly, reaching over to take his hand. “You scared us. A lot.”

“Sorry.” His tongue poked out of his mouth to lick his lips, then slid back into his mouth. “Everyone okay?”

“Everyone’s fine,” Alex reassured him, her brow furrowed. “Are you sure _you’re_ okay? No neck pain, no headache, no palpitations? They checked out your neck after someone bumped you during the CPR, but—”

“M’fine,” Spencer interrupted gently, “just tired.” After a moment, he added, “and floaty.”

Alex couldn’t hide her amusement. “Floaty, hm?”

“Yeah. Did’ya’ get the sheriff?”

“Hotch, JJ, and Morgan are on their way now. Should be simple.”

Spencer smirked. “N’v’r simple.” 

He was falling asleep again; Alex squeezed his hand and leaned over to brush his hair from his eyes. “You’re right.” Her fingers lingered, taking his temperature, before returning back to his hand. “And you’re okay, now. Go to sleep, Ethan.”

Spencer’s eyes opened a slit, puzzled, before they fluttered shut and his hand went lax. Alex readjusted the mask over his mouth before pressing two fingers to his wrist, taking comfort in the steady beating of his heart.

_Ba-dum. Ba-dum._

That was enough for now. Alex relaxed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I loved this episode so much! And only 45% of that is because of the whump.
> 
> ...Okay, maybe a little higher.
> 
> Sorry for any medical inaccuracies; I was being dramatic.


	15. Is Something Burning?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm sets his apartment on fire—or does he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: fire

He couldn’t think, couldn’t _stop_ thinking.

Malcolm paced his apartment, running his hands through his hair as silver moonlight stained the floorboards and Sunshine rested on the floor of her cage.

_Not rested,_ Malcolm reminded himself, _died_. 

Sunshine was dead, _had_ been dead for almost six hours now.

And it had been Malcolm’s fault, just like always was. He couldn’t even bother to take care of a parakeet; he had to kill that, too—the _one good thing_ in his life, the _one good thing_ he thought that he could manage, the _one good thing_ that never failed to make him feel okay.

He had called Gil in a panic and Gil had hugged him, didn’t try to say everything was okay _because it wasn’t_ , and Malcolm told him to leave after a few hours despite the protests.

“Okay,” Gil had said quietly, putting on his coat. “Take care of yourself, kid.” And, after a beat, he added sadly, “She was a good bird.”

_Okay_ ; he didn’t trust Malcolm to be alone. _Take care of yourself, kid_ ; if you can—he can’t. Why would Gil think he was able to? No one should have to take care of him; he’s a _grown man_ who can’t handle himself. 

_She was a good bird._

Too good for Malcolm to handle.

Was it something physical, was that it? Malcolm glanced down at his hands—shaking and quaking and trembling and violent. He turned the sink faucet on the hottest setting and stuck his hands under the spray, rubbing with a sponge until it started to hurt.

On the counter, the orange, artificial gleam of his medications caught the night lights from outside and taunted him.

He forgot to take one this morning—the benzodiazepine—and instead of cracking open the cap, Malcolm flung open the window and tossed it out, watching it fall, then crack against the sidewalk, sending white tablets skidding across the ground like mice.

Parakeets don’t eat mice, and neither do humans—why does he need these? Why does _he_ have to depend on chemicals that he doesn’t have enough of in his own head to ensure he’s safe?

_For your own safety._ He was familiar with that phrase, though the _your own_ was always spoken heavily; light anchors that pulled the speaker’s mouth down slightly. Lie.

His hands were dripping with warm water and blood. Malcolm brought his wrist to his mouth and tasted—no, just a hallucination. There was no blood on his hands except for Sunshine’s.

But then Malcolm glanced up and there _was_ blood—leaking from the ceiling, spilling through cracks in the walls and oozing up between the floorboards. It made him sticky. He had to get rid of it.

Bleach and cleaner could only do so much, Malcolm thought hazily, as he knocked another bottle of pills from the counter—and besides, he doubted if he kept any bleach. What cleans? What could get rid of everything, what could get rid of all the blood?

His eyes fell upon a box of matches.

* * *

Gil knew something was wrong before he answered the phone.

At first, he could only hear heavy breathing, and he almost hung up the landline, but then a voice broke the silence: _“Gil.”_

He knew who it was. “Bright? You okay?”

_“She’s the one good thing,”_ Malcolm replied, his voice tight with distress. Gil wondered if he even knew who he was talking to. _“I have to—I have to get rid of it. Why can’t it go away?”_

“What can’t go away?” Gil asked, all tiredness gone. “Bright, talk to me.”

_“There’s so much blood, Gil. Covering—it’s everywhere, and I dropped—threw it all away—I can’t do this. Please help me make it go away. I don’t have any bleach. What about fire? How much do I need?”_

“Malcolm, I don’t think I understand,” Gil said carefully, throwing his coat on.

Malcolm whined, high in his throat. _“No one understands! No one! Not anymore,”_ he added miserably. _“She’s dead, Gil. She’s dead, and I—help me.”_

“Who died? Sunshine?” Silence. “Oh, kid, that wasn’t your fault, remember? She was old.”

_“I need to get rid of it—the blood. I wanna...I don’t know what’s happening to me.”_

The concern grew. Gil locked the front door and hurried into his car. “What blood? Did you hurt yourself?” 

_“No, no, no. I don’t know. I don’t know whose blood it is, but I—I want it to go away,”_ Malcolm explained, his voice cracking on sobs. _“My head hurts and...please. It’s too much.”_

“Okay,” Gil soothed, putting the car into drive, “okay. I’m on my way. Are you in your loft?”

_“I have to—did you know that? Fire. It’s, um, my father never did it; he would never. I’m not like him. I didn’t kill anyone, I swear.”_

“I believe you. Just stay on the phone. Bright—Malcolm—whatever you’re seeing, it isn’t real.” Or was it? Gil didn’t want to know.

_“I don’t know that! I don’t know that. I’m so tired, Gil. So tired—it’s kind of pretty.”_

“What’s pretty? Keep talking to me.”

_“Fire. It’s, um...I don’t even know where I put...do I have matches? I forgot. I do that a lot, right?”_

Gil pressed the gas pedal harder, sending a quick text to Dani as he drove without waiting for a response; Malcolm was still talking: _“It’s warmer, Gil.”_

“Bright, is your loft on fire?” Gil demanded.

A beat. _“I don’t know,”_ Malcolm replied quietly. He sighed. _“I don’t even know anymore.”_

The line went dead.

* * *

“Bright! Malcolm Bright!”

Malcolm glanced to the side before letting his head drop back into his hands. _Not real not real not real not real._ Nothing was real—not the blood, not the smoke, not the flames licking his walls. 

Not the one good thing resting on the floor of her cage.

“Mr. Bright, this is the fire department! Are you inside?”

Yes and no. Malcolm clapped his hands to his ears and sucked in a breath, coughing it out when the air tasted like ash. His skin burned; he had stopped sweating a while ago and now felt like all the moisture had been sucked from his skin.

Someone put their hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. “Hey, kid.”

Malcolm glanced up. “Gil?”

“Do you know what happens to the human body when it reaches an internal temperature of 106 degrees?” Gil asked.

“Proteins denature,” Malcolm mumbled, resting his face on the counter. “Your organs basically...cook. Inside your body.”

“Yeah.” Gil undid the top button of Malcolm’s collar and rose from his seat. “You have to get out of here before that big brain of yours turns to mush.”

“You’re not real,” Malcolm sighed into the marble. “None of this...none of this is real.”

“Psychosomatic heat? That’s new, then,” Gil remarked. “Where did you put the matches, Bright?”

“Dunno.”

“I guess that’s one way to get rid of that atrocious rug.”

Malcolm snapped his head up to see Martin standing where Gil had just been a moment ago. Donning his Claremont scrubs and cardigan, his father spun on his heel, taking in the burning apartment around them.

“Marie Kondo did say to throw away things that don’t spark joy,” he continued. “Unfortunately, I do believe you might be overstepping. Then again,” he added warmly, “you were always an overachiever.”

Malcolm took a step forward and his knees buckled; he hit the ground hard and barked out a harsh cough before settling on his heels. “Get outta’ my head.”

“Oh, if it was that easy, I would have,” Martin replied with a grin. “In a few minutes, two things are going to happen: you’re going to collapse from smoke inhalation, _or_ your body is going to go into shock from the nerve damage. Either way, both are quite painful—but only for a little bit.” When Malcolm didn’t respond, he gave a sharp, impatient clap of his hands. “Come on, boy! Time’s a-ticking! How are you going to escape?”

“Mr. Bright!”

“Ooh, there’s an alternative,” Martin said. He clicked his tongue. “You could just rely on others to save you, as per usual.”

“Shut up,” Malcolm mumbled, slumping over his knees.

“You’re very _needy,_ aren’t you? Pills to keep you calm; birds to keep you happy; other _people_ to give you a purpose. Why don’t you just live for yourself? Well,” he added with a chuckle, “maybe that’s for the best. Your... _Me-Time_...it can get heated, I will say.”

Malcolm coughed, and suddenly, he was on the ground, his head towards the smoke rolling out the open window. Martin stepped into his field of vision, looming over with a tilted sneer.

“Isn’t it interesting that the only people you’re eager to spend time with are dead?” he asked quietly. A slow smile spread across his face. “So independent; just like your old man, right? Although, this is _not_ my M.O., as you know,” he added, with a theatrical gesture to the flames edging closer. “The human body deserves to be observed and marveled at in all aspects of life. _Burning..._ it’s almost disrespectful.”

Someone grabbed Malcolm by the shoulders and hauled him to a sitting position, then lowered him back to the ground, wiping the soot from his cheek, and Malcolm, on his end, didn’t really feel it. It was so hot, now—almost cozy—and the stranger patted out flames that had suddenly appeared over his chest.

“Poor Tweety,” Martin murmured, stepping over Malcolm to gaze mournfully at Sunshine’s cage, now starting to crack in the heat. “Probably not the roast chicken dinner you had in mind, right?”

“Sir, can you hear me at all?”

Hands were on him, now, lifting him into the air, and Malcolm cried out in surprise. Martin shushed him, running a hand Malcolm couldn’t feel through his hair.

“Ashes, ashes,” he mocked. “We all fall down.”

A flash of heat, then cold air buffered Malcolm’s shirt, soothing the burns on his stomach.

Burns that might not have even been there in the first place.

* * *

The car screeched to a stop on the corner of Malcolm’s street, where a small crowd had started to gather. Gil threw open the car door and rushed towards the building before a pair of arms restrained him.

“NYPD!” Gil shouted, without bothering to see who was holding him back. “I’ve got a guy in there!”

“Gil, slow down,” JT ordered firmly, keeping his arms around him. “He’s not in there.”

“...What?”

JT loosened his hold. “Firefighters got him out. He’s okay, Gil, look—the apartment’s not even on fire anymore.”

Gil glanced up, expecting to see smoke but finding nothing but the charred edge of Malcolm’s window. “Where is he?”

JT guided him past the caution tape. “EMTs are taking care of him. He’s a little crispy, but he’s gonna be okay.”

“I don’t get it,” Gil muttered as they made their way to the ambulance. “What about the fire?”

“They stopped the flames before they spread,” JT explained quietly, his voice professional and clinical—how could he be so calm? “Looks like he set a box of matches on fire and threw it onto the rug, but there wasn’t a lot of damage.”

Gil pushed past JT to the ambulance, where Malcolm was huddled on the bumper with a blanket over his shoulders and an ice pack on the back of his neck—something that seemed pretty counterproductive, but there wasn’t any need to dwell on it.

“Kid?” he asked quietly. Malcolm didn’t seem to hear him; his glassy eyes were fixed on the ground. Gil reached out and squeezed his shoulder, wincing at the heat radiating from him. “You okay?”

Malcolm dragged his gaze up, but remained silent. He smiled slightly.

Gil relaxed a little. “You okay?” he asked again.

“Fine,” Malcolm rasped, after a moment. Tears started to rise to his eyes.

It broke Gil’s heart. “No, you’re not.”

Malcolm leaned forward, pressing his face into Gil’s chest and using his shirt to stifle a harsh cough. The latter bent down to wrap an arm around his shoulders; both melting into the touch, both heaving their own sighs of relief.

“You’re gonna be fine, kid,” Gil murmured, pulling away from the embrace. “And I’ll buy you a new rug. That last one was pretty ugly, anyway.”

“Okay,” Malcolm replied faintly, his eyes on something in the distance.

Gil turned around—nothing was there. His brow furrowed. “Are you seeing anything? Any _one?”_

Behind him, Martin Whitly gave them both a little wave.

“No,” Malcolm replied, “there’s no one.” He swallowed. “Nothing’s there.”

Gil gave him a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I know you’re hurting. Let’s take it one day at a time, yeah?”

Malcolm glanced down at his hands. “Yeah.”

“Okay, then. I’ll let the medics take care of you, now. Get some rest, kid—you need it.”

On Malcolm’s wrist, Sunshine chirped as if to agree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((Cue the meme of that dog in his burning building saying “I’m fine”))
> 
> I was struggling over whether or not I wanted the fire to be real—and how badly I wanted to barbecue our guy. I hope the ending was satisfying enough!


	16. Into the Unknown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm and the team get involved with some ghost mojo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: possession

“She’s a _what?”_ JT asked.

Their victim’s sister, Olivia Rodriguez, nodded tearfully. “Mary was a prophet.”

JT and Dani exchanged a dubious glance, but the latter prompted, “What do you mean?”

“She got...messages,” Olivia explained, shifting in her seat. “She could communicate with the spirit world. I’m telling you, something isn’t right,” she added, more forcefully. “The one detective—the short one, with the nice eyes—he said that her death was nothing like he’d ever seen.”

Dani bit her lip. “Olivia, Mary’s murder was certainly unusual, but…”

Her voice trailed off; searching for the right words. _Unusual_ was an understatement—Maria had been found completely flayed, gutted, and stuffed with a multitude of flowers.

“But we doubt our killer is some sort of supernatural being,” JT supplied.

Olivia shook her head vehemently. “You’re wrong.” She held out a large canvas bag and slid it across the table. “Please, no one will speak to me. It’s all...overlapping.”

“We’ll do it.”

JT turned around to see Malcolm standing in the doorway.

“Trick or treat?” he greeted them all awkwardly, moving across the room to take the bag from Olivia, his face uncharacteristically solemn. “Worth a shot, right?”

Olivia gave him a watery smile. “I knew it. I knew you understood.” Before anyone could speak again, she threw herself onto Malcolm, squeezing him tightly before stepping back. “Please find the creature that did this.”

“We will,” Malcolm replied softly, with a half-smile of his own.

Olivia’s brow furrowed; her expression grew almost concerned. “You know what it’s like,” she remarked quietly, “being haunted by things you can’t explain. _Seeing_ things, _hearing_ things. Do you have spirits, too?”

Malcolm blinked, his smile dissolving. “Not those kinds of spirits,” he answered vaguely, “but you could say that I believe in ghosts.” He tucked the bag under one arm. “Mine just aren’t dead and gone yet.”

Olivia nodded. “I hope both of us can put them to rest.”

“Me too. I’ll keep you up with the investigation, Olivia.”

With a final, sad smile, Olivia stepped through the doorway and exited the precinct, leaving Malcolm with the canvas bag. Inside was a large, wooden box, and after seeing the words on the cover, all three let out exhales of varying emotions.

“You’ve gotta be _kidding_ me,” JT groaned.

* * *

Gil was not pleased.

“What the _hell_ is going on?” he demanded, upon seeing three of his colleagues sitting cross-legged around a Ouija Board in the darkened break room.

“We’re ghostbusting!” Edrisa announced, stumbling past him with an armload of candles.

Make that four.

Gil crossed his arms, glaring at Malcolm. “This was your idea,” he stated.

“Technically, it was Olivia’s,” Malcolm argued, as he took the candles from Edrisa and arranged them in points around the circle. “We’re just experimenting with the idea. It’s like closure.”

“What, the idea of _demons?”_ Gil scoffed. “Bright, a _human_ killed Mary Rodriguez, not the Moth Man. And what about you?” he asked of JT and Dani. “You’re just letting him do this?”

Dani couldn’t hide her smirk. “I was curious.”

JT, on the other hand, glowered. “Believe me, Gil, I was outnumbered.”

“Are you scared of the spirit world?” Edrisa taunted, grabbing a container of salt from the counter. “And, you know, if anyone, it’s not the Moth Man that killed Mary. This is something even _I’ve_ never read about.”

Gil wrestled the salt from her hands. “Give me one good reason why this should happen,” he ordered. Off the team’s silence, he nodded resolutely. “Okay, then. We’ve got witness statements to take and _actual investigating_ to do. So let’s get to work and not waste our time.”

With that, he left. The rest of the team stared at each other, then looked down at the board.

Malcolm lit the first candle.

* * *

“ _Ohmygodohmygodohmygod,_ ” Edrisa breathed for the fourth time in thirty minutes. “You guys, it’s moving!”

Malcolm fixated his gaze on the heart-shaped planchette under their hands, trying to feel for a change in position. Sure enough, the triangle was moving slowly across the board.

JT couldn’t suppress his smirk.

“JT, stop moving it,” Dani groaned, slapping his hand away. “Let’s just get this over with, okay?” The planchette shifted. “JT, I swear to God!”

But JT wasn’t smiling anymore. “That wasn’t me,” he said slowly.

Malcolm and Edrisa grinned at each other, before the former lifted his head to the ceiling. “Hello?” Nothing. “My name is Malcolm Bright. Is Mary Rodriguez there? Or, well...anyone?”

The planchette slid. Edrisa bit her lip against an excited squeal, focusing instead on calling out the letters that their planchette was landing on: “T...A...L…”

JT glared at Malcolm. “If you brought my wife into this shit—”

“A,” Edrisa announced, louder. “C...K.” She furrowed her brow. “‘ _Talack_ ’?”

“It’s an uncommon Sanskrit name,” Malcolm offered, glancing back up. “Is that who you are? Talack?”

One of the candles sizzled out.

“That’s not good,” Dani commented.

Malcolm didn’t seem to notice. “Talack, is that your name? Or is that who killed you?”

The lights flittered with a small buzzing noise. Edrisa curled into herself, and Dani exchanged a nervous glance with JT.

Malcolm, however, remained unfazed; rather, his curiosity increased. “Hello?”

Nothing.

“Maybe he’s gone,” Edrisa offered hopefully.

As if on cue, the lightbulbs stopped stuttering, and everyone relaxed—everyone except Malcolm, who shivered. “Did you feel that?”

“Feel what?”

Edrisa’s question remained unanswered, however, when Malcolm’s head suddenly dropped to his chest and his body flopped back onto the ground with a heavy thud.

“Oh, fuck!” JT exclaimed, shooting to his feet.

Edrisa scrambled over on her knees, putting a hand on Malcolm’s shoulder. “Bright?”

No answer. Dani debated calling for Gil until—

“Hey,” Malcolm drawled, flicking his eyes open. He smiled. “What’s up, fam?”

Edrisa blanched. “You’re not Bright.”

“Sorry for all this mess,” Not-Bright apologized, his accent odd. “He won’t mind, right?”

“You’re British,” Dani stated.

Not-Bright swung himself up to a sitting position. “Sort of. My words get a bit muddled in the voice box sometimes, but you can still understand me, right?” The others nodded, unsure of what to do. “Super. What’s going on, anyway? Gimme some deets.”

“Some _deets?”_ JT scoffed.

Not knowing how to handle the situation, Dani decided to cut to the chase: “Do you know Mary Rodriguez? Or anything surrounding her death?”

“Mary Rodriguez,” Not-Bright murmured thoughtfully, pressing his index fingers to his temples as if he could conjure up an answer—and maybe he could. “Hm, doesn’t ring a bell. I’m a bit behind on all this,” he apologized quickly. “You know, what with the election and croquet and all.”

“Who are _you,_ then?” Dani pressed.

Not-Bright grinned. “Oh, _me!_ My name is Polly. Polly Talack.”

“Oh, _you’re_ Talack,” Edrisa affirmed with a nod. She gave the others an awkward smile. “Well, we’re getting somewhere.”

“Back to Mary Rodriguez,” JT said, cutting back to the chase, “you got anything? At _all?_ Much as I appreciate the lack of Bright-isms, this might be worse, so I’d appreciate you cutting the ghost mojo as soon as possible.”

“How _rude,”_ Polly tsked. “It’s been so long, y’know? I just wanted to stretch my legs.” He smirked. “You want the tea or not?”

“Did he just say—what the actual heck is going on?” Edrisa mumbled.

Polly shot to his—Malcolm’s?—feet, pacing excitedly. “Now _Mary_ —I think I remember her. Skinned, gutted, the works?” Off the team’s nods, he bounced a little on his toes, which was more unsettling than it seemed—either because Malcolm looked happy or the whole dead-ghost-possessed thing. Maybe the former. “Oh, yeah. She’s totally screwed.” To himself, he added grumpily, _“I’m_ totally screwed.”

“Who killed her?” Dani asked.

Polly went suddenly uneasy. “Well, me.” Everyone gawked. “Don’t stare; I’m already so embarrassed about it.”

“You _sure?”_ JT asked, which seemed slightly unreasonable.

Polly huffed, staring at Malcolm’s shoes. “I strangled her, she shot me—you know, it’s so complicated when you’re ghosts; the vessels can get a little mangled in the process.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Edrisa murmured.

“Course it does,” Polly sniffed. “We both died without realizing it, and we both kept trying to kill each other. Really did some damage on our corpses. I tried to fix it—really!—but I just messed it all up. I thought the flowers would work as a sort of apology. No?”

“I’m quitting after this,” JT grumbled.

Polly doubled over suddenly, groaning. Despite the circumstances, Dani got to her feet and put a hand on his shoulder, surprisingly concerned. “You good?”

Polly shot his head up, eyes dangerous. “This _Bright_ of yours _,”_ he hissed, “is trying to get me out. Oh, god, this feels so weird.”

“I don’t wanna know,” JT begged.

Edrisa panicked. “What happens if he gets you out?”

“I don’t want to go,” Polly whined, dropping to his knees. “It’s so boring in hell.”

_“Hell?”_ JT exclaimed. “What, there’s a heaven and hell?”

“Well, no,” Polly scowled, grimacing. “Actually, um—it’s complicated...James?”

“Oh, not you, too.”

“I’ve got a little-little- _little_ bit of Bright’s memories,” Polly explained. “Just a pinch. And...yikes. Guess I’m not the only demon in here.”

“You’re a _demon?”_

“No, I’m a chinchilla,” Polly snapped, clutching his head with both hands. “Ow, ow! What the fuck!”

“This literally can’t get any more uncomfortable,” JT muttered.

As if on cue, Gil opened the door.

“Apparently, it can,” Dani announced.

“What did I just say?” Gil demanded, starting to launch into a lecture before realizing that his consultant was rolling across the floor in pain. “Bright?”

“Not exactly,” Polly mustered, stumbling to his feet. “Hey, you’re the old man in his noggin!”

_“Old man?”_ Gil scoffed, before demanding, “Bright, are you high?” He turned to the team. “What happened in the forty minutes I left?”

“We solved the case,” Edrisa tried.

“Wait, what?”

Polly staggered forward, putting his hands on Gil’s shoulders. “I killed Mary. She killed me. We’re a ha-ppy fa-mi-ly,” he added, sing-song, though his voice faded out when he took in everyone’s horrified expressions.

“Stop playing games, Bright,” Gil sighed, putting a hand on his trapezius. “Go home, yeah?”

“ _Noooo,”_ Polly moaned, “I _hate_ my home. That’s why I ran away.” He sighed. “My boss is gonna be pissed.”

“I am,” Gil huffed.

Polly bent over again and wailed, loud and guttral, before stopping suddenly, eyes fixed on the ground.

“Bright?” Gil asked hesitantly.

Polly collapsed.

A moment passed, then two. Gil took Malcolm’s pulse, then checked his temperature, frowning to himself, before demanding, “What the hell just happened?”

“It’s complicated,” Edrisa said weakly. “Is he okay now?”

Malcolm stayed stubbornly unmoving. Dani reached out to shake his leg and he twitched once before going still again.

“Maybe he’s dead,” JT suggested.

Unfortunately for him, it was then that Malcolm shot up with a strangled gasp, frantically taking in his surroundings. Everyone jumped back, startled, and he frowned. “Whassat?”

“Bright?” Edrisa tried.

“What? What happened?” Malcolm asked, and everyone exhaled. “Why are you all so—why am I here?”

Everyone glanced at each other, unsure.

Finally, JT spoke up: “You got voodooed.”

“I...what?” Malcolm lifted a hand to his head, still puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“What do you remember?” Dani prompted.

“Um...the board. After that, not much. Why? What happened?”

Gil pat him on the back. “Nothing,” he said firmly, with a pointed glance at everyone else. “Nothing happened. Go home, please? Get some rest. We got it from here.”

“But we didn’t even try the board,” Malcolm argued.

“No need. Killer confessed; turned himself in. Case closed.”

Malcolm narrowed his eyes, obviously unconvinced, but after a moment, he looked like he was too tired to object. “...Okay.” Gil helped him to his feet. “Are you sure?”

“One hundred percent. Come on.”

Gil nudged him out the door, but not before Malcolm turned to the team and gave them a wink.

The rest of the candles went out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was......odd. To say the least.


	17. A Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vijay and Malcolm chase a suspect without backup and find themselves in a hostage situation.  
> But ironically, it’s their captors who have a rough time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: shoot the hostage

“This is just fan- _fucking_ -tastic,” Vijay growled.

What should have been a simple series of violent bank heists had turned even more complicated. While Vijay had assisted the NYPD on the insurance sides of the case, Malcolm had worked up a profile and learned about the organization behind it. The plan was to find a location—likely a warehouse—and efficiently shut the business down.

Unfortunately, that’s where the plan went sideways.

While Gil and his team hurried to a downtown warehouse, Malcolm knew that the profile didn’t make sense. It was then he realized that there was only one man at the heart of the operation—an injustice collector named Patrick Randall. So naturally, he did what any respectable consultant would do: he ran off without telling anyone about his change of plans, waltzed into the suspect’s next target unarmed, and took his childhood best friend with no experience in law enforcement along for the ride.

Looking back on it, he should have expected to be taken hostage.

“Tell me you know how to get out of this,” Vijay sighed, struggling to stay upright from where he and Malcolm had been tied back-to-back on the floor.

“Don’t aggravate him,” Malcolm ordered, scanning the bank. It was closed—fortunate for the common citizen, unfortunate for them. “Patrick will not be taken down easily. Based on his operations, he’s desperate and narcissistic, and the moment he knows it’s over, he’s going to kill us and then himself.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful,” Vijay groaned, “absolutely superb! When will your pals at the NYPD get here?” Malcolm didn’t respond. “Yo, Whitly! How long on the cops?”

“About that,” Malcolm said slowly.

Vijay sighed, slow and aggravated. “You messed up. You know that, right?”

“Yes,” Malcolm admitted, then quickly added, “but! This means we have a window. As long as Patrick isn’t feeling too much pressure, there’s a chance I can get us on his side. We’re likely being held because he has something to prove. I can work with that.”

“And what are you going to do?” Vijay demanded. “You’re going to _talk_ your way out of these ropes?” Another lengthy pause told him all he needed to know. “You _suck!”_

“I will admit, something went wrong,” Malcolm replied.

Vijay sounded like he wanted to say more, but it was then that Patrick Randall returned, looking smug and tucking his cell phone into his pocket.

“Looks like there was more than one after all,” Malcolm mused. “Guess I should’ve listened to myself the first time.” To Vijay, he ordered, “Don’t say anything. Let me do the talking.”

“Like you’ve done a whole hell of a lot of good,” Vijay hissed.

“NYPD’s in the know,” Patrick crowed, strolling over. “I got a big price on your heads.”

“Ransom? You don’t care about money,” Malcolm said, at the same time that Vijay asked, “How much are we worth?”

Malcolm twisted around. “Really?”

“What do you mean, he doesn’t care?” Vijay retorted, equally annoyed. “This is a bank heist!”

“Closed bank heist,” Malcolm corrected him.

“Oh, pardon me for my ignorance!”

“ _Shut up!_ ” Patrick shouted, whipping his gun out with a flourish. He dragged it to Malcolm first. “You’re 80K.” He pointed it at Vijay next. “You’re 75.”

“What?” Vijay scoffed. “Why is he worth more than me?”

“Because you’re annoying.”

“Told you,” Malcolm muttered under his breath.

“And ‘cause he’s a cop,” Patrick continued, his expression thoughtful. “Right, Mr. Malcolm Bright?”

“Technically, I’m a consultant,” Malcolm admitted, “but I mean...you’ve done your research, Patrick. Which makes me wonder...what is it that you’re really after?” Patrick didn’t respond, but he didn’t need to—as Malcolm spoke, he was working out the case at the same time. “This is your statement. Likely, you applied for a job in law enforcement, right? And when that didn’t work, you decided to get their attention another way.”

“They called me unstable,” Patrick said, after a moment.

“And you didn’t believe them?” Vijay muttered quietly.

Patrick paid no mind to the comment. “I’m a mastermind in counterintelligence,” he went on, “and I passed all the tests. I did all the push-ups; I solved all the problems. But they still didn’t want me, just because I’ve got a record! Well,” he said, straightening, “now they’ll see what they’ve done.”

Malcolm nodded. “They sure will.”

Their gazes locked in an intense staring contest, neither willing to back down. It was Vijay who finally broke the silence: “Okay, hooray! We connected the dots and you told us your diabolical scheme. Can we go now?”

“Not quite,” Patrick hummed. “This is still fun for me. I like to watch the faces.”

“Sadism,” Malcolm remarked, looking almost impressed. “And you’re an adrenaline junkie! The thrill is what makes the heist so great, right? The higher the stakes, the higher the reward.”

“Life’s a game,” Patrick agreed, unable to stifle the grin that spread across his face. “I just know how to roll the dice and win.”

“Believe me,” Vijay huffed with a pointed glare, “you’re not the only one who likes to _gamble with your life.”_

“Tick-tock, boys,” Patrick said with a shrug. “Tell me about yourself while your buddies get over. Any final words, should things go south for you?”

This made Malcolm straighten, suddenly fearful. “You plan on dying in here,” he breathed. “And you’re going to take us down with you.”

Vijay struggled in his bonds. “He’s gonna _what?”_

Malcolm wasn’t paying attention. “You don’t have to do this,” he said slowly.

“When does that _ever_ work, man?” Vijay exclaimed.

Patrick didn’t listen to him either. “Sorry,” he apologized with a nonchalant shrug. “It’s just the game.”

“And the game has to be played,” Malcolm agreed. “But not like this. There’s another way for both of us, Patrick.”

Vijay was still aggravated—rightfully so, seeing as he was about to die. “I am so _touched_ ,” he spat, voice high with distress. “You two just finish each other’s _fucking_ sentences like _fucking_ soulmates! I’m third wheeling here and no one is thinking about the fact that he just said he’s going to kill us all!”

The phone rang. With a smirk, Patrick strode over to the other end of the bank, spinning on the waxy tile. “To whom am I speaking to?”

After a beat, Malcolm twisted to face Vijay. “Now’s our chance,” he said. “Quick—that mirror. The broken one. I need you to slide the glass towards me.”

Vijay nodded, scooting until he lay almost supine on the tile. With one leg, he managed to kick over a few shards of glass. Malcolm struggled, but soon enough, he started to saw away at the tape. The plan was back in motion.

Or it was, until:

“Ow!” Vijay exclaimed. “You cut me!”

“You’re going to be a lot worse if we don’t get out,” Malcolm pointed out.

A small click made him glance up.

“You are,” Patrick agreed, holding his gun point-blank to Malcolm’s face. With his other hand, he swept the glass from underneath the two and kicked the broken mirror across the floor. Vijay and Malcolm watched the shards skid across the floor, then spin to a stop, out of reach.

“Seven years of bad luck,” Malcolm managed weakly.

“Time’s up,” Patrick growled, pressing the barrel against his forehead. “Last confession before we all go down.”

“Hold up,” Vijay said suddenly.

“You?” Patrick asked, aiming it at him, but much to his surprise, Vijay didn’t even flinch. Instead, he twisted to half-face Malcolm, looking more menacing than the man pointing a gun at him.

“You know what, Whitly?” he snarled. “I got a confession. Three of them.”

“Oh, I am _dying_ to hear it,” Malcolm snapped back.

“Your plans are shit, you’re stupid as hell, and we should have stayed at the precinct!”

Malcolm bristled. “This isn’t _entirely_ my fault!”

“None of this would have happened if _you_ hadn’t decided to chase the guy with the gun!” Vijay shot back. “Normal people run away from the crazy stuff, right?”

“I’m not normal,” Malcolm pointed out.

Vijay gaped in mock surprise. “No _fucking_ way!”

“Shut up, Vijay!”

“No, _you_ shut up, Whitly!”

“Don’t call me that!”

Vijay tried to turn more in some attempt to fight, but neither he nor Malcolm seemed to remember the fact that they were bound back-to-back, and soon enough, both of them had tipped sideways onto the floor in a tangled, duck-taped pile of bitterness.

“This is what the law has to offer?” Patrick mused, dropping his gun a little bit. “Maybe I was right not to join the CIA.”

Malcolm stopped struggling suddenly, his expression bright. “I was right! It was the CIA!”

Vijay sighed. “Damn, I thought for sure he’d be an NSA wannabe.”

“If we get out of this tape, you can give me that twenty dollars.”

“You mean _when?”_

“Oh, sorry. _When_ we get out of the tape. Sorry, Patrick,” Malcolm added, glancing up at their captor. “You didn’t get all the glass.”

So maybe the plan wasn’t a complete bust.

Malcolm rolled away from Vijay, bonds cut, and Patrick immediately started firing. But Vijay stayed where he was, and his tape had not moved an inch.

“Vijay!” Malcolm shouted, running across the room as bullets whizzed by his face.

Vijay squirmed to duck behind a table. “That was supposed to be so badass!” he whined.

“You kind of blew it!” Malcolm hollered back. “Get down!”

But Vijay did not get down. Instead, he struggled to his feet and started to bounce towards the door, screaming all the way, his hands tight behind his back and his legs stubbornly together. A hail of bullets bounced from the floor, barely missing him.

“Two guns!” he yowled. “Two guns! You never said there were two!”

“I actually did!” Malcolm shouted indignantly. “Where are you going?”

“Cops are outside! You can kick ass without me!”

Sure enough, the red-and-blue lights of the NYPD cars flashed outside the window. Before Vijay could break to the door, however, he stumbled, then fell, blood smearing in his wake.

“ _VIJAY, NO!_ ” Malcolm shouted, at the same time that Vijay screamed, “ _OH, FUCK!_ ”

Malcolm rushed over at the same time Gil and the others burst through the door, hands fluttering over his friend’s body. After examining, however, he stopped and sat back on his heels, completely calm, as Vijay writhed on the floor, his eyes squeezed shut.

“I’m dead!” he wailed. “I’m dead, I’m—holy shit, Whitly, he shot me! I’m gonna die!”

Malcolm started to laugh, which made Vijay incredibly insulted. “You’re not going to die. Get up.” He pulled him to a sitting position. “Look.”

Vijay glanced down at his forearm. The sleeve was torn and there was blood, but a small amount that was clotting fast. The bullet had only grazed him.

“Did we do it?” Vijay breathed.

Malcolm nodded. “We did it.”

In the center of the room, Patrick was on his knees, and so was his partner. Vijay jumped to his feet and pumped his fist into the air.

“You hear that?” he shouted at their captors. “You live to tell the tale! Take that, fuckers! The Corner Table Boys, kicking ass since 2001, baby! _Woo!_ ”

Malcolm put a hand on his shoulder. “I think our asses were also kicked a good amount.”

“And our asses were also kicked!” Vijay hollered. “Very much!”

Dani broke from the other officers and walked towards Vijay and Malcolm. “Do we need you two on a leash?”

“I would be _thanking_ us,” Vijay sniffed. “You’re in the presence of incredible coolness.”

Dani glanced at the ground, trying to hide the amused smirk on her face. “Right. What was it you called yourselves?”

Malcolm and Vijay looked at each other. “The Corner Table Boys,” the former admitted, slightly embarrassed. “But we have other aliases.”

“The Bad Seeds,” Vijay agreed, “the Bad Dad Squad. The Sons of Bitches.”

“We made a name for ourselves,” Malcolm concluded.

“You really did,” Gil said, walking over. “As in, you’re suspended.”

Malcolm gaped. “But we caught the robbers! We exposed Patrick!”

“And you nearly got killed,” Gil pointed out. “How many times? Call for—”

“Backup,” Malcolm finished, hanging his head.

Gil nodded, his mouth set, and he left to go finish the arrests. Meanwhile, Malcolm’s head popped back up, the shame gone in a snap. He held out his hand to Vijay. “Twenty bucks.”

“Uh-uh,” Vijay scoffed, holding out his arm. “I took a _bullet_ for you, man. I was wounded in action while saving your life!”

“Somehow I doubt that,” Dani piped up.

Malcolm kept his gaze trained on their captors, led away in handcuffs. “I guess my profile was wrong,” he remarked. “Patrick was willing to give up after all.”

“Guess so,” Dani agreed.

“But we did it,” Vijay said happily, holding out his fist. “You and me, Bright. Bros for life!”

Malcolm bumped it. “Bros for life,” he echoed, before his eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Did you call me ‘Bright’?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m quite proud of the “sons of bitches” alias hahahahaha


	18. I Did Not See That Coming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These quarantine games just get weirder and weirder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: wrongfully accused  
> Thanks to Appalachian Apologies for the cool little ejection icon thing!!
> 
> Vague but major spoilers for events in s14, s12, & s7

**LOCAL ONLINE**

**CENSORED CHATROOM: ON**

**CODE: QOGPLK**

**IMPOSTERS: 2**

**PLAYERS: 9/9**

Bbygirl: k k starting!!!

Bbygirl: all here?

JJ: yep

JJ: whos carrotcake

Carrotcake: I am playing on Jake’s phone

Bbygirl: MATT???

Carrotcake: yes

Em: Who is Jake?

Em: Kid #36?

**STARTING IN 5...4...3...2...1...**

**_SHHHHHH!_ **

**CREWMATE**

**THERE ARE 2 IMPOSTORS AMONG US**

**EMERGENCY MEETING**

Em: why

Anderson: ??

Carrotcake: who called the meeting?

TLewis: Rossi?

Rossi: not me

Rossi: skip?

**. 。 • ﾟ 。 .**

**. . 。 。 .**

**. 。 . • •**

**ﾟ No one was ejected. (Skipped.) 。 .**

**' 2 Impostors remain. 。**

**ﾟ . . , . .**

  
  


**DEAD BODY REPORTED**

Em: where

JJ: where

_Anderson: NOOOOOO_

Carrotcake: where

Rossi: medbay

**< <Bbygirl has voted>>**

Bbygirl: reid was following meeee

Bbygirl: also he was right by the body on cams

Em: sus

JJ: sus

**< <Em has voted>>**

**< <Carrotcake has voted>>**

**< <Luke has voted>>**

Luke: sus

Reid: what is sus

**< <Rossi has voted>>**

_Anderson: Lewis_

**< <Em has voted>>**

_Anderson: what did I do to you_

TLewis: Who was killed?

_Anderson: AS IF YOU DON’T KNOW_

Rossi: we all voting reid

Reid: why ??

TLewis: K

**< <TLewis has voted>>**

_Anderson: ****_

Reid: I didn’t kill him

**< <Reid has voted>>**

_Anderson: LEWIS LEWIS LEWIS_

Luke: have fun in space lol

**. 。 • ﾟ 。 .**

**. . 。 。 .**

**. 。 ඞ 。 . • •**

**ﾟ Reid was not An Impostor. 。 .**

**' 2 Impostors remain. 。**

**ﾟ . . , . .**

**DEAD BODY REPORTED**

_Reid: why am i always accused of murder_

JJ: where

Rossi: where

_Em: JJ STUCK HER TONGUE IN MY FACE SHIELD THING EW_

_Em: EWEWEW WTF_

_Anderson: LOLOLOLOL_

Carrotcake: where

Luke: electric

Carrotcake: hmmmm

Luke: ???

**< <Carrotcake has voted>>**

Luke: wat

Carrotcake: that was fast

Rossi: sus

Bbygirl: I’ll be nice

**< <Bbygirl has voted>>**

Bbygirl: nvm newbie’s always sus

**< <Rossi has voted>>**

_Em: sus_

_Reid: Luke’s not the impostor_

_Em: yeah i know it’s just funny_

**< <TLewis has voted>>**

Luke: ???? I was in the caf

**< <Luke has voted>>**

TLewis: doing what?

Luke: emptying garbage

TLewis: so you ejected yourself ??

Rossi: shots fired

_Anderson: OHHHH DAAAAAMN_

Luke: **** u

Rossi: so defensive

JJ: sus

**< <JJ has voted>>**

_Reid: who’s laughing now_

_Em: lol i thought we were profilers_

**. 。 • ﾟ 。 .**

**. . 。 。 .**

**. 。 . ඞ 。 . • .**

**ﾟ Luke was not An Imposter. 。 .**

**' 2 Impostors remain. 。**

**ﾟ . . , . .**

**!LOW O2!**

**EMERGENCY MEETING**

Rossi: ?

JJ: Rossi tried to kill me

JJ: closed the door when Tara + Matt and I were in room

Carrotcake: sus

Bbygirl: sus

Rossi: how can i close the doors when i am not the impostor

**< <JJ has voted>>**

**< <Bbygirl has voted>>**

**< <Carrotcake has voted>>**

_Em: wtf that was so fast_

_Em: brutal_

**< <Rossi has voted>>**

_Luke: wait so who are the impostors??_

_Em: JJ_

_Anderson: Tara_

_Reid: groupthink_

**< <TLewis has voted>>**

TLewis: I’ll be nice

Rossi: thx

**. 。 • ﾟ 。 .**

**. . 。 。 .**

**. 。 • •**

**ﾟ No one was ejected. (Tie.) 。 .**

**' 2 Impostors remain. 。**

**ﾟ . . , . .**

**DEAD BODY REPORTED**

TLewis: where

JJ: electric

_Rossi: just when i thought i had gotten past it_

**< <Bbygirl has voted>>**

Bbygirl: OK LISTEN UP ALL

TLewis: ?

Bbygirl: Rossi’s dead

_Rossi: my past comes back to haunt me_

_Anderson: like your wives lololol_

_Anderson: srry sorRRRRYYYY_

_Anderson: DDFGHJ DONT FIR E MEMEM PRFENTISS_

_Anderson: DONT FIRE ME PRENTISS_

Bbygirl: and we are profilers

Bbygirl: no u are profilers

Bbygirl: i am me

Carrotcake: we love you Garcia

Bbygirl: thx carrotcake

_Em: carrotcake ahahahhaha_

Bbygirl: this is the part of the case where i solve everything for you

Bbygirl: but u need to use them big brains

Bbygirl: victimology

Bbygirl: how did he die?

_Rossi: Tara shot me in the face_

Bbygirl: k dont know next thing

Bbygirl: who in the electric?

Bbygirl: look at the cams

_Reid: wow_

_Em: she been knew_

_Em: i should just fire everyone here asdfghjkl_

Bbygirl: Tara last seen in electric room

TLewis: I was in hallway

Bbygirl: did u vent tho??

Bbygirl: sources point to yes

JJ: sus

 **< <JJ has voted>>** ****

**< <TLewis has voted>>**

_Luke: wow the scandal going on here_

_Reid: not the first time JJ betrayed us_

_Anderson: r u guys always like this_

Bbygirl: in conclusion Tara is your unsub

Bbygirl: cause she was super S U S

**< <Carrotcake has voted>>**

**. 。 • ﾟ 。 .**

**. . 。 。 .**

**. 。 . ඞ 。 . • .**

**ﾟ TLewis was An Imposter. 。 .**

**' 1 Impostor remains. 。**

**ﾟ . . , . .**

**!FIX LIGHTS!**

_Luke: we need to finish paperwork_

_Em: o **** right_

**< <Em has left the game>>**

_Reid: I finished_

_Anderson: yeah we know_

_TLewis: gonna go_

_TLewis: bye!_

**< <Luke has left the game>>**

**< <TLewis has left the game>>**

_Rossi: its my day off_

_Rossi: and i am spending it with you guys_

_Rossi: bye I’m gonna go live a life_

_Reid: dont go_

_Rossi: sorry kid gotta blast_

_Anderson: why do you know that phreae_

_Anderson: phrase_

**< <Rossi has left the game>>**

_Reid: Garcia?_

_Reid: GARCIA NO_

**DEFEAT**

**JJ and TLEWIS were The Impostors.**

_Bbygirl: I TRUSTED HER_

_Bbygirl: OUTRAGEOUS_

_Reid: did we lose or win?_

_Anderson: that was fun_

Carrotcake: JJ it was you??

JJ: yep

Carrotcake: wooooow the deception

_Anderson: these quarantine games just get weirder and weirder_

_Bbygirl: well among us is the only game we can play online that everyone agrees on_

_Anderson: bc were not doing club penguin Garcia. club penguin is dead._

_Bbygirl: or is it????_

_Bbygirl: how do you think I’ve managed to stay in touch with hotch_

_Anderson: wait what_

**< <Bbygirl has left the game>>**

_Anderson: regret 1000_

JJ: gotta go sorry but i had fun!!

JJ: see you tomorrow

**< <Em has joined the game>>**

Em: we have a case

Carrotcake: how did you get in??

Em: its the power of us not being allowed to have fun ever

Em: also Garcia

Em: wheels up 1 hour

**< <Em has left the game>>**

**< <JJ has left the game>>**

**< <Carrotcake has left the game>>**

_Reid: everyone always leaves me_

_Anderson: lmao_

**< <Anderson has left the game>>**

**< <Reid has left the game>>**

**LOCAL ONLINE**

**CENSORED CHATROOM: ON**

**< <Reid has joined the game>>**

**CODE: DOJLHK**

**IMPOSTERS: 1**

**PLAYERS: 10/10**

**STARTING IN 5...4...3...2...1...**

_**SHHHHHH!** _

**IMPOSTOR  
GOAL: KILL & SABOTAGE EVERYONE ON THE SHIP**

Reid: what?

Reid: wait what does that mean?

innocent69: what does what mean

Reid: lots of new buttons

innocent69: click them newbie

**VICTORY**

**REID WAS THE IMPOSTOR**

_innocent69: WTFFFFFFFFFF_

_innocent69: 40 SECONDS?!?!?!?!? WE ALL DEAD???_

Reid: play again?

Reid: hello?

_popc0rn: u said u were a newbie >:(((((_

_URMOM: wtf dude_

Reid: I think my computer is glitching. I can’t see anyone typing.

_popc0rn: omg this twink did he cheat???_

_popc0rn: ****ing ********_

Reid: how the tables have turned!

Reid: i guess i was sus after all

**_AmongUs-Auto-3951 forcibly disconnected_ **

**_because: User-15S-BANNED_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS WAS SO FUN
> 
> I’ve heard the many ideas about the team playing among us and I HAD to write it. I hope you enjoyed!!
> 
> And now that I think about it...how many words do you think Garcia can type per minute?


	19. Panic! At the Disco

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No one could get in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompts: panic attack / paranoia

The door was unlocked.

Naturally, it would be, Luke figured—after all, he had entered the hotel room two seconds ago—but he still felt a chill up his spine upon testing the knob and finding that it turned easily under the pressure.

Unaware of his colleague’s anxiety, Spencer placed his go-bag next to one of the beds and sat himself down on the floor with an exhausted sigh. The three-hour flight had taken a lot out of them all; Emily ordered everyone to get rest as soon as they set up their place in the Sacramento precinct.

“Do you have the room key?” Luke asked, trying to keep his voice nonchalant.

Spencer nodded blearily, sliding the keychain across the carpet before leaning back against the side of the bed and closing his eyes from where he was on the ground.

Luke picked the key up and stuck it in the lock. There was already a twisted lock and a sliding chain attached to the door—but what good had any of that done for Phil?

The key turned. Luke left it in the doorknob and slid the chain to its taut position, then turned the other lock to the right, then the left, then back to the right again.

Locked, locked, locked.

Was it enough?

Luke undid all the locks and redid them, careful to test the knob, pounding on the door twice to make sure no one could get in. _No one could get in._

Or could they? He still felt a twinge of unease in his stomach, like there was something he had missed. He undid, redid, undid, redid the locks.

Twist. Slide. Twist. Locked. Check. Good. 

No. Somehow it didn’t feel right. Maybe he didn’t do it correctly—was there a right way to lock a door? There was no secret; no hidden compartment in the hotel room, Luke knew.

But still.

“You okay?” Spencer asked groggily, opening his eyes a slit to witness what was happening.

“Fine,” Luke replied quietly, keeping one hand on the door.

Spencer didn’t look convinced. “The door is locked,” he assured him. “You’ve done it a few times now. No one can get in, and even then, we’re trained FBI agents. Our friends are just next door. The situation is under control.”

Luke was too tired to be defensive. After a moment, he admitted, “But we don’t know that.”

“Don’t know what?”

“We don’t know what we have under control until it gets...lost,” Luke explained, keeping himself faced towards the door. “And it never...it never comes when you expect it. I just want to be sure.”

Spencer softened. “And are you?”

Luke tested the knob again.

Locked.

“Yes,” he said, then sighed. “No.”

“You know...what happened to Phil...it isn’t going to happen to you—at least not in the same way. The chances are—”

“Nearly impossible,” Luke interrupted, “I know.” He knocked his forehead on the door once. “I know.”

Spencer pursed his lips, understanding. “But still.”

“But still,” Luke agreed softly. After a moment, he let his hand slide from the knob, and he took a step away from the door, exhaling through his nose. “But still.”

“Try to sleep. We have to work the case tomorrow.”

“Okay. Thanks, Reid.”

Spencer nodded with a small smile, head bobbing back to rest on the bed. After a moment, his shoulders sagged, and he slumped down. Luke left him there, not sure of the repercussions of moving him.

Instead, he sat down in front of the other bed, mimicking Spencer, facing the door with his gun in his lap.

_No one could get in._

But if they did—when they did—Luke was ready.

* * *

The door was locked.

Spencer forgot how he had gotten to the door—one second, he was resting against the foot of the bed, the next second, someone shouted and he had jolted to his feet, running to the door.

But no one had spoken.

Spencer hugged his arms around himself and glanced around. It was hard to see in the near-darkness of the room, but he could make out someone on the ground despite the beds in the center of the room. Why were there beds?

He tried the knob again, freezing when it didn’t budge.

Again, he twisted it. Locked. Spencer took a step back and ran his hands through his hair, trying to keep his breathing down for the sake of the body on the floor. _The body on the floor._

Which body? Who was it?

The air smelled like ammonia.

Spencer glanced up, waiting for the inevitable buzz, the inevitable _OPEN GATE_ that was as real as the scream from his dream that still echoed inside his head, bounced against his chest. His lungs squeezed tight and his palm was throbbing—his palm.

Spencer turned his hand over and ran his thumb along the scar, then pressed, hard. The door remained still.

He had to get out of here. But wasn’t he already?

“Hello?” Spencer cautioned, peeking through the crack in the door. No one was there. “Hello?”

Where was he, even? Spencer risked a glance, and still his eyes gravitated towards _the body on the floor._ What happened to him? To her?

Did he kill this body, too?

Spencer swallowed against the taste of laundry detergent and brought his hand to the door despite the _HANDS OFF NO TOUCHING_ rule. Maybe they forgot him. Maybe he was alone.

Maybe this was a trap.

“Let me out,” Spencer whispered, slapping his hand on the door once, twice, before making a fist and pounding. “Let me out! Hello? Is anyone there? I’m not—I don’t think I’m supposed to be here.”

Of course he wasn’t supposed to be here.

He was innocent.

Or was he? 

Because the body on the floor begged to differ.

“I didn’t kill anyone,” Spencer tried desperately, pounding on the door. “I can’t—there’s someone here and I can’t—I can’t _breathe.”_ He coughed, ammonia burning his nostrils and making his throat dry, his head swim, his stomach churn. “I can’t breathe. Please, get me out of here, I _swear_ , I _did not kill anyone!”_

Something went terribly wrong—he knew it as soon as he had been denied protective custody. He glanced around and honed in on a spoon lying haphazardly, hap _hazard_ ly, on the counter. It’s a hazard. He’s a hazard. But he isn’t, not really, and he _needed to get out_ before he choked on the ammonia; before his throat was slit by the screaming; before he was left to the others with their shivs, shanks, spoons, forks, knives, towels. _No one could get in._

Which meant no one could get out, either.

Someone put a hand on his shoulder and he turned, swinging hard. His attacker dropped the _shivshankspoonforkknifetowel_ and bent over, clutching at his nose before stumbling backwards.

Spencer held the spoon out. _“Get away from me!”_

“Reid, it’s _me_ ,” the man insisted.

Spencer turned back to the door, pounding on it. “Help! _Help!”_

“It’s Luke!” the man shouted, hands fluttering as he tried to figure out where it was safe to put them. “Reid, you’re in the hotel. It’s Luke.”

The hotel. The _hotel._ “Where’s Rosa?” Spencer demanded, taking the spoon and jamming it against the keyhole in the door. Maybe he could pick the lock, or bust it open. Was he able to kick it open?

He kicked the door, and it didn’t budge. Vaguely, he thought with that he should have added Morgan to his visitor’s list; he could get him out of here. _He had to get out of here._

“You’re not in Mexico,” Luke said again. “You’re with me, Luke, on a case in Sacramento.”

Spencer punched the door again and the spoon bent, so he settled for resting his head on the door, knocking softly, then knocking harder, slamming his forehead into the door as he gripped, twisted, gripped, twisted the doorknob to no avail.

“Spencer, stop it!” Luke shouted, his voice desperate—because he couldn’t touch him, there’s _NO TOUCHING ALLOWED._ “Spencer, you’re hurting yourself.”

Spencer squeezed his eyes shut, clapping his hands to his ears. “My name is Spencer Reid and I’m thirty-five years old, I’ve been in the FBI for thirteen years, I’m innocent, I’m doing what I have to, I’m—” His voice cracked. “I can’t breathe in here.”

“I’m going to open the door, okay?” Luke called. “I’m going to get you out of here, just stop hitting your head, okay? Stop hitting your head and take some deep breaths with me. Can you do that?”

“You’re not real,” Spencer breathed, squatting down and pressing his face into his knees. “You’re not real, I can’t—I shouldn’t have done this, I shouldn’t, but I did, I did what I had to, my name is Dr. Spencer Reid and I’m—”

“Look, the door’s open, Reid. Let’s go to the hallway.”

“—innocent, I’m innocent, you have to help me because my _mom is missing_ and she doesn’t have—I’m being attacked, please, let me out, there’s a body here and I can’t _breathe_ , turn the vents on, turn the vents on and _open the door—”_

Someone pushed him forward, and he hit the ground—the ground as in the hallway, outside. 

_Outside._

He did it.

“Reid, can you hear me? Deep breaths, okay?”

Spencer looked up and faced Luke, before scrambling until his back hit the wall. “There’s no—don’t touch me! Don’t touch me, they’ll—”

“You’re not there,” Luke interrupted firmly, holding his hands up in a surrender position. “Look around. Look at this—you’re on the carpet. The carpet in the hallway of the Moonlight Hotel in Sacramento. Inhale. Exhale. Like I’m doing.” He pointed to his chest to demonstrate.

Spencer put his hands on the ground, surprised to find soft carpet underneath him. A quick glance confirmed that the prison had melted away. He sucked in a shaky inhale before realizing—“Where’s the body?”

“There was no body,” Luke assured him. “That was me. I fell asleep on the floor, like you did. Remember?”

He didn’t, and it scared him. He shouldn’t have a hard time remembering things.

Rosa, the murder, the hotel, the car chase. He was forgetting, more and more and more.

“Breathe, Reid. Just sit down, put your head between your knees. There you go.”

Maybe Cat Adams was right. 

_In twenty years, I’ll remember your name. But you won’t remember mine._

“Keep breathing. You’re with me, Luke, in Sacramento. And we’re both okay.” 

But he _did_ remember. 

He remembered getting out, getting home, the car accident and the team. And the case of four drowned men in a line from Sacramento to Las Vegas. And Luke was locking the door. And he was sleeping on the floor. Bags against the counter, unzipped but still packed.

“Feeling better?”

He remembered. He remembered.

Spencer nodded.

“Okay,” Luke sighed, holding a hand out. _NO TOUCHING ALLOWED._ “Let’s get some sleep, okay? We’ve still got five hours until we have to be at the precinct.”

After a moment, Spencer took his hand.

The screaming stopped.

* * *

“I can still smell it,” Spencer admitted, the next morning. “The ammonia.”

Luke nodded, glancing around at the room. “Yeah, and I can still...I can still feel the blood under my fingernails,” he confessed. “I can still...taste the dirt. See the faces.”

“Hear the screaming,” Spencer added softly, almost to himself.

Luke half-smiled, reaching out to tap him on the chest reassuringly. “But we’re good now. Outta there. And we survived, didn’t we?”

“We did,” Spencer agreed, melting a little from his stiff posture. He glanced down at his watch. “Twenty minutes. We should get going.”

“Right. Get the key?”

Spencer grabbed the hotel room key and stepped through the open door, before waiting for Luke to join him.

He did. The door closed. 

They both stared at it.

“Do we lock it?” Spencer asked hesitantly.

Luke exhaled. “I don’t know.” He dusted his fingers over the knob, then dropped his hand. Closed his eyes. Took a breath. Glanced at Spencer. “You want to?”

Spencer swallowed, brow pinched in deep thought.

He reached for the lock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The hotel’s gotta be pretty empty for no one to wonder who the hell is screaming in the middle of the night asdfghjkl


	20. Broken Hearts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: grief
> 
> Spoilers for s3 events

**HANNIBAL (O.S)**

Did you get along with your father?

**SCENE—HANNIBAL LECTER’S THERAPY ROOM**

HANNIBAL and WILL sit in their respective chairs.

**WILL**

_(weak laugh)_

I’m usually the one asking that question.

HANNIBAL SMIRKS, slightly, then regains his composure. WILL does so as well, admitting with a BELEAGUERED SIGH:

**WILL**

My father and I...did not see eye-to-eye.

**HANNIBAL**

Was it a lack of perspective?

**WILL**

Actually, it was too much.

**HANNIBAL**

_(Nodding)_

Oftentimes, we overanalyze the ones we care about. Assuming we know what is best for them, it is easy to jump to conclusions about what they desire. What they think.

_(Beat. DIRECT EYE CONTACT with WILL.)_

What they did.

**WILL**

_(Knowingly)_

Not all conclusions are hastily conjured, Dr. Lecter.

HANNIBAL does not flinch at this jab—rather, he fixes WILL with a COLD STARE. 

WILL HOLDS HIS GAZE.

**HANNIBAL**

This is a conversation inside your head, Will. Why must your subconscious version of me confess to crimes I am already in prison for?

WILL deflects the question; settles on saying instead:

**WILL**

My father was what Jack Crawford would call a “rat bastard”.

**HANNIBAL**

And yet you are still experiencing the five stages of grief.

WILL contemplates this. DOUBT.

**WILL**

It isn’t the five stages of grief so much as…

_(He shrugs.)_

A loss.

**HANNIBAL**

One could argue the feelings of loss and grief are the same. As for myself, I think of them as different shades of the same color.

**WILL**

And what color would that be?

A KNOWING LOOK from HANNIBAL. It is clear to him that WILL is dancing around the question.

**HANNIBAL**

Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. What end of the spectrum have you found yourself in?

**WILL**

I suppose I’ve been jumping.

**HANNIBAL**

Grief isn’t linear.

**WILL**

But I’m _not_ grieving. Because I didn’t love my father. Not because he was abusive, or violent, or addictive—he wasn’t any of those things. And maybe that’s the problem; maybe he was...just a father. Not a play-ball dad, not a comforting role model. A father.

**HANNIBAL**

When you needed love, you only received cold truth and hard advice. Perhaps both of you struggled with expressing care for each other.

Or maybe, as good Jack Crawford has explained, he was just a rat bastard.

**WILL**

I guess I really am one son of a bitch.

**HANNIBAL**

Interesting how you think of Jack Crawford to aid you in describing your father. What is your relationship with him?

WILL is TAKEN ABACK.

**WILL**

I don’t think I like what you’re implying.

**HANNIBAL**

I’m not implying anything, Will. I am simply curious.

His voice changes—he is clinical now; offering advice has turned into making conclusions.

**HANNIBAL, CONT.**

You have issues with the authority figures in your life, particularly the men. It is clear you favor the opinion of Alana Bloom because of her femininity; women are the only humans who you believe show empathy without lying or pitying. How does that affect you, Will? How does it affect Molly?

**WILL**

_(Attempting a joke)_

What are you asking? Am I feminine, or do I just have major daddy issues?

_(HANNIBAL is UNAMUSED.)_

The people in my life don’t define me.

**HANNIBAL**

They say you are the average of everyone around you. You spend your time with monsters.

**WILL**

I keep my work away from home. Molly’s made that clear.

**HANNIBAL**

Maybe your father was a different person outside the household as well. And now that you yourself are a father, you are doing what you do with Jack: empathizing.

**WILL**

I’m not my father’s son.

**HANNIBAL**

Is Walter?

A contemplative, uncomfortable pause. 

WILL SHAKES HIS HEAD.

**HANNIBAL**

Do you wish he was?

**WILL**

Technically, I’m not his father.

**HANNIBAL**

But you’re his dad.

**WILL**

Same thing.

**HANNIBAL**

I think not.

**WILL**

What happened to your father, Dr. Lecter?

**HANNIBAL**

This isn’t about me.

_(Beat.)_

But if you must know, I fed his heart to his mistress and used his blood for Sanguinnaccio Dolce.

**WILL**

Just desserts.

They both almost smile.

**HANNIBAL**

Fathers are an uncomfortable subject to breach at the dinner table—much like religion, finances, and politics.

**WILL**

God is a father.

**HANNIBAL**

Not _a,_ Will— _the._ All people are created in His image, and therefore so are all fathers.

I doubt God is a “play-ball dad”, as you described.

**WILL**

I think people would feel more than just a _loss_ if God were to disappear one day.

**HANNIBAL**

I wouldn’t bet on it. After all, God leaves people all the time. To suffer, to die, to rot.

**WILL**

Yet people still love Him.

This is what HANNIBAL was hoping to hear.

**HANNIBAL**

My point exactly.

_(Beat.)_

Your father’s funeral: what were you feeling?

**WILL**

Uncomfortable.

**HANNIBAL**

And why is that?

It’s hard to explain.

**WILL**

I don’t know. Maybe it was...the other people. Their emotions.

**HANNIBAL**

You were uncomfortable because the other attendees felt your father’s loss more than you?

**WILL**

No, it was the fact that they _felt_ that was uncomfortable.

**HANNIBAL**

You’ve always struggled with processing your emotions, Will. And other people’s, more so.

**WILL**

People looked at me with their...red-rimmed eyes, and their snuffling noses, silently asking me why I wasn’t crying. It felt sticky.

HANNIBAL thinks about this. Nothing more to add. He changes the subject:

**HANNIBAL**

Jack Crawford referred you to a grief counselor, and you turned down the offer. Yet you are having a conversation with me, right now, in your head. Why is that?

**WILL**

Jack doesn’t understand my thought process.

**HANNIBAL**

He never has.

_(Almost jokingly.)_

Unless you are simply rebelling against this surrogate father of yours.

WILL is not happy with that statement. HANNIBAL gets serious again.

**HANNIBAl, CONT.**

We both know I am the only one who has really ever understood you, Will. Not even Molly really knows what lurks behind your eyes, does she?

WILL gets DEFENSIVE.

**WILL**

No; _I_ understood _you._ Not the other way around.

**HANNIBAL**

A door can be entered through two ways. By opening your mind up to see the Chesapeake Ripper, you provided a second entry—for me to look inside. It is a symbiotic relationship, mutually beneficial.

**WILL**

_(He scoffs.)_

There is nothing _mutual_ about this.

**HANNIBAL**

So why are you still talking to me?

_(Beat.)_

You _are_ experiencing the five stages of grief, Will. But maybe it just isn’t for your father.

The both LEAN BACK in their chairs. Expressions unreadable.

FOCUS on WILL: He OPENS HIS EYES and finds himself—

**CUT TO—WILL GRAHAM’S BEDROOM, NIGHT**

—alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m definitely sure that this script format is not accurate but I was too lazy to write in prose ahahahhaha  
> I hoped you enjoyed it anyways! XD


	21. Toto, I Have a Feeling We’re Not in Kansas Anymore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spencer falls off a railing in urban Kansas City and lands on the ground of an old Western town called Orion—in 1890.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: medieval (substituting with: Wild West)
> 
> Spoilers for s10e13 “Nelson’s Sparrow”

The phrase _FBI! Put your hands up!_ wasn’t all just for show, but it sometimes seemed as if UNSUBS felt that way.

Kim Tally had been on the radar as soon as affluent businessmen had started to commit suicide across Kansas City without any predecessors. Once a fourth body had shown up just across the border, the BAU was called in, and thanks to the combined efforts of VICAP and the local PD, it was easy to narrow down his location.

Unfortunately, _apprehending_ him was not as easy a feat.

This was what was going through Spencer’s mind as he was hurtling towards the ground.

It had all happened so fast—one second, he was trailing behind Emily, struggling to catch his breath as the two of them clambered up the fire escape, and the next second there were hands on his shoulders, twisting him around and struggling to get his gun.

Spencer reached for his holster a moment before Tally did, swerving to protect his firearm, but the momentum was forced the wrong way, allowing Tally to get a quick shove in—a shove that threw him over the railing and sent him falling down the side of the building with his head towards the ground.

He didn’t feel the impact—at least, not in the way he thought he did. Expecting to feel his body slam into the concrete, breaking bones and splitting skin, Spencer was surprised to feel himself hit hard-packed earth with a dull thud, as if he had only fallen six feet as opposed to a couple stories.

“Whoa, easy! Easy there, girl! Can someone get—”

Spencer groaned and rolled onto his back, searching for the source of the noises starting to shake his brain. As light as the fall was compared to what he had planned to happen, it wasn’t exactly painless, and now he could feel the throbbing from where his skull had smacked the ground.

“You—kay—id? Can—me?”

Whoever was speaking was fuzzing in and out, their voice a thick ringing by the time it reached Spencer’s ears. The sun was so blinding that it was hard to see, but that was another confusing thing; hadn’t it just been November?

Determined to find out, Spencer forced himself to sit up, but there were hands on his shoulders, quickly preventing him from moving, and upon righting himself, Spencer decided that laying down seemed pretty nice after all. The hands pushed him gently back to the ground, and he let his head drop back with a bump that sent shooting pain through his temples.

“Stay down,” the stranger urged him, once the ringing in his ears had died down some. “That looked like a pretty nasty fall. You okay?”

But he wasn’t a stranger; that voice was familiar. “Rossi?” Spencer mumbled, holding a hand to his eyes to block out the sun.

“In the flesh,” Rossi replied, though his brow furrowed. “And who might you be?”

Spencer was confused. “What? Rossi, it’s me—Reid. Spencer.”

“Sorry, son, but I don’t know any ‘Reid’,” Rossi replied, sitting back on his heels.

“What?” Spencer murmured to himself. Now that he had gained some of his bearings, he could see where he was—

And he wasn’t in Kansas City.

“Where am I?” Spencer asked.

“Orion,” Rossi replied slowly. “Population 230. Year of our Lord 1890.”

Spencer just blinked. “Did you say _1890_ _?”_ He pushed himself back up to his elbows. “What? No, it’s 2016. It’s—where’s Emily? Hotch? I was just—I was on the fire escape, and I...what happened?”

Rossi looked concerned—rightfully so, but not for the reasons Spencer was hoping for. “Let’s get some water in you, hm? How does that sound?”

Spencer was familiar with that tone of voice, and it made him bristle. “I’m not crazy,” he insisted, “I was just—I don’t know where I am, or who you are, because the you that _I_ know isn’t—isn’t this. I was chasing an UNSUB in Kansas City and he pushed me, and I—”

Rossi silenced him with a simple hand gesture. “Don’t speak, okay, kiddo? We’re gonna fix you up real good, promise.”

“Is this a dream?” Spencer asked himself. His head was still hurting, and now that he felt it, the sun was uncomfortably hot—too hot for someone in layers. His stomach churned. Maybe he should take his coat off.

Rossi seemed to have the same idea, palming the side of Spencer’s neck with a frown. “Don’t you know that the sun kills out here? Damn, no wonder you’re losing your head.”

“It was winter when I fell.” Saliva flooded his mouth, bringing with it a wave of panic. “I don’t feel good.”

Rossi definitely got the message, because he turned Spencer onto his side moments before his stomach revolted against the heat—or what might have been an impressive brain injury. Probably both.

“Get it out,” Rossi soothed with a grimace, “that’s it. You’re okay.”

Something wet pressed the top of Spencer’s head like a hat, blowing air into his face. After Spencer finished retching, he was able to drag his head up and come nose-to-nose with a horse.

A horse?

“Hey, Reid.”

The horse leaned forward and snuffled Spencer’s face, looking just as confused as he felt.

“Spencer.” Rossi was snapping his fingers in his peripheral vision now. “You with me still?”

Spencer nodded, holding a hand to his head. “Where’s Emily?”

“Spencer Reid?”

Despite Rossi’s protests, Spencer shot to his feet and staggered towards the noise—a noise that he knew, that he could trust. “Emily, thank God!”

Emily was making her way towards them, her mouth set. “What’s going on?” she demanded.

“I don’t know,” Spencer quickly explained. “I don’t—you remember, right? Kansas City? Kim Tally? The fire escape?”

But Emily only fixed him with a concerned stare. “You don’t look so good, Reid. If that _is_ you,” she added quickly, glancing down at a sheet of paper in her hand. “Gideon made it sound like you’d be a little older, y’know?”

Now it was Spencer’s turn to blink. “But Gideon’s dead.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Emily replied, uncharacteristically unbothered. “Dave, where’d he come from?”

Rossi got to his feet, steadying Spencer with a hand on his shoulder. “Bucked his horse, Sheriff—”

_“Sheriff?”_ Spencer gawked.

“—saw the whole thing and found him on the ground with his lights out for a good couple minutes. He’s been talking nonsense since he woke up,” Rossi finished, expression pinched. “Think the heat’s getting to him, too.”

“Get him to the doc,” Emily ordered, then added with a glare, “In one piece, Dave.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Rossi simpered, unbuttoning Spencer’s jacket and tossing it on the ground. Spencer let him. “No stopping for drinks, I get it. Let’s go, kid. Penny’s the best apothecary in the Midwest.”

“Penny, as in Penelope?” Spencer mumbled, half to himself. He was starting to worry whether or not his stomach wanted to purge again, but maybe he’d pass out before he got the chance to experience it; his legs were starting to go numb. “She’s not good with blood.”

His vision fuzzed out.

“Reid?”

Spencer dragged a palm across his face and his ears went cold. “Whas’ Garcia doing in an apothecary?”

“Spencer, you okay?”

Spencer shook his head slowly, not really processing Rossi’s hands moving from his shoulders to his hips. “Don’ know where I am.”

“Orion, remember? Do you remember being sent here?”

Who was speaking? Spencer thought, distantly, that he should be able to distinguish in voices, but all he could focus on was the uncomfortable tightness in his chest; the pulsing behind his eyes. “Why don’t you know...?”

His legs buckled and Rossi caught him halfway down, looking unsurprised. “I gotcha, I gotcha, kid,” he affirmed quickly, “take it easy. Sheriff, get Penny, will you?”

Emily’s footsteps receded, sending dust flying into the air. Spencer felt Rossi sit him down and give him a reassuring pat on the shoulder before standing up. “I’m not goin’ anywhere, Reid. Just gotta make sure your horse is stable.”

“The horse that bucked me?” Spencer asked dazedly, more to himself than Rossi.

“Yeah, that’s it.” He could hear the smile in Rossi’s voice, and the worry—he knew the tone well. “You got a name for her?”

“Dunno,” Spencer mumbled, closing his eyes. “Do you know where Kim went?”

“Is that it?” Rossi pressed, the worry overtaking the smile. “Kim? That’s your—hey, Lamontagne! Gimme a hand, will you?”

Lamontagne. “JJ?” Spencer asked.

He didn’t stick around long enough to find out. Someone new put their hands on him, and soon, a third voice joined the chorus. Spencer felt something wet run down his face, sticky and warm, and the earth underneath shifted to rock as opposed to dust.

He listed backwards and hit the solid ground harder than he should have.

Concrete. Blood on his face and cheek turned to rest on the pavement.

The pain he had been expecting finally came over him, but only for a second.

Maybe it all _was_ a dream.

But then, why could he still feel the sunlight?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He did say he wanted to be a cowboy.
> 
> I had a lot of fun with this one, I love Cowboy Spencer! XDD
> 
> As always, thanks for reading!! :)


	22. I Don’t Feel So Well

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm falls into a lake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: hypothermia

Malcolm didn’t remember getting pistol whipped by their suspect, nor did he remember the ice cracking and giving way beneath his feet. All of it dissolved into a chorus of bubbles, harmonizing with the groan of cracked ice and enveloping him in a frigid symphony.

That’s all he was really thinking about—the cold. If he had been in a better frame of mind, he might have panicked, but instead, Malcolm let the water pull him down, riding up his shirt and tugging his arms above his head.

The lake continued to sing, and as it did, a red ribbon fluttered past his eyes and bobbed to the surface that was quickly disappearing from his vision.

_“Now, synesthesia—such an intriguing condition! They say the senses in the brain cross paths, if you will, causing some people to experience extraordinary things: colored music, scented words...the list is almost endless. The human brain is Harry Houdini of medicine.”_

Maybe that was what was happening—the music of the lake was changing into colors in front of his eyes, colors that he had never experienced before, so why now? Malcolm dragged an arm through the crimson haze and was surprised to find that it was coming from his head.

Right. Pistol-whipped. He should probably stop breathing right now.

The lake was starting to warm up, either from his body becoming hypothermic or the sunbeams cutting through the water; pale streaks like spotlights that dissolved the blood like mixed paint.

Suddenly, something turned off the lights.

Malcolm glanced up at the darkness that shook the orchestra with heavy vibrations, swamping everything in shadows.

_“There’s something in my closet. Can you turn the light on?”_

_“And what would that do? Would the light scare it away?”_

_“...No.”_

_“Exactly. No reason to be afraid of the dark, my boy. You had taken your PJ’s from there only moments ago. What could have gotten in between then and now?”_

_“Nothing.”_

_“See? You’re okay. And if you’re not, just know that I’ll always be there to help you. Whatever darkness it may be.”_

Malcolm convulsed under the pressure of holding his breath and looked below him. More darkness.

Or, that was until something grabbed him by the leg.

Malcolm shouted, air bursting from his mouth as the water took its place without hesitation, and the pale hand on his leg yanked hard, down, down, drowning him, pulling him further deep.

_Find me._

It was her.

Malcolm relaxed, suddenly.

The darkness won—maybe he deserved that.

So he closed his eyes.

The music stopped.

When JT pulled Malcolm from the lake, he was completely still.

“Fuck,” he cursed, laying him flat. “Bright?”

No answer. Malcolm’s head lolled to the side, his lips tainted a sickening purple and his skin icy and pale. JT pressed two fingers to his neck—there was a pulse, but it was panicky and weak.

Also, he wasn’t breathing.

JT let out a series of choice words before scrambling for his phone, which was left haphazardly on the ice and possibly dead. Struggling to type with his numb fingers, he finally dialed an ambulance before tossing the phone to the side.

Ventilations without compressions.

The fact that Malcolm was so boneless scared JT more than he wanted to admit, as he tilted his head back and pushed a breath past his lips, holding his nose shut. Five seconds passed with no breathing, and he did it again. And again. And again.

Malcolm’s lips turned blue, now.

JT blew again.

Malcolm bucked and choked on the water in his throat mid-breath, into JT’s mouth—which felt something like the worst French kiss anyone had ever experienced—but the relief overtook the disgust and JT rolled him onto his side, letting out an exhale of his own.

“You’re good!” he shouted over the gagging. “You’re good, Bright. Breathe.”

It sounded stupid to say, and if Malcolm were more aware he’d probably point out that _If I could, I would_ , but JT repeated the mantra over and over until Malcolm flopped onto his back, coughing weakly.

“Some stakeout that turned out to be,” JT muttered, ghosting his fingers over the gash on Malcolm’s forehead. “That doesn’t look so good.”

“Paramedics!”

JT waved them over. “Over here!”

A pair of EMTs squatted beside JT, quickly pushing him aside to work over his partner. “What happened?”

“Hit in the head with a gun,” JT explained breathlessly, “then the ice cracked. I gave around—damn—um, I—he wasn’t breathing when I pulled him out, but I gave him a few rescue breaths. Six, I think.”

“How long was he under?” one of the medics asked, dragging a stethoscope over Malcolm’s chest and nodding for her partner to job back to the ambulance for a gurney.

“Um—five minutes? Six?”

Malcolm opened his eyes, staring at a point in the sky, and the EMT quickly turned her attention to him. “Sir, can you hear me? Can you tell me your name?”

“Her’t,” Malcolm replied, which wasn’t very helpful. He flopped his arms weakly, trying to push away whatever was poking his stomach and tearing his clothes off. “St’ppt.”

“My name is Abby, I’m here to help. You fell in the water, do you remember?” Malcolm closed his eyes again. “Hey, come on. Can you hear me at all?”

“His name is Malcolm Bright,” JT offered, feeling useless. “He’s a—um, oh, I gotta call his boss.”

“Are you his proxy?”

“Me? No. That’s the guy I’m gonna call.”

“He’t?” Malcolm mumbled again, though his eyes stayed closed. “Got—hm?”

“Bright,” JT called, “it’s all good, man. Stay down.”

Malcolm’s head rolled in his direction and his eyes opened a sliver. “J’mie.”

JT couldn’t suppress the relieved smile that slipped past his lips. “You gotta hate me, don’t you, you little shit? Gil’s gonna kill me if you die. He’d kill _both_ of us, actually.”

Malcolm blinked. “D’s’t make s’nse.” He coughed again, then choked on the water in his chest, and Abby rolled him to the side again. “D’ya hear?”

“Hear what?” JT pressed.

“Th’colors.”

“The what?”

Malcolm didn’t seem very aware anymore; his half-lidded eyes wandered to Abby, then to the sky. “Th...where’s she?”

“Who?” JT and Abby asked at the same time.

“Almos’ saw her,” Malcolm sighed, letting his eyes slide shut. “Alm...don’ know wh’ppned, sh—colors, too dark.”

“What’s he saying?” JT asked Abby, as if she knew.

Unsurprisingly, she shook her head. “We’re taking him to Central. He’s hypothermic and incoherent,” she added to her partner, readying a backboard. “His speech is way too nonsensical, and it’s—no, he’s out again, I think. Mr. Bright?” 

Malcolm didn’t respond. Without another word, Abby and her partner lifted him onto the gurney, leaving JT alone with a frozen phone and an empty explanation for what he would tell Gil as he drove.

The ice creaked as he walked back towards the car. It was almost musical.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was basically plotless whump sdfghjkl
> 
> It felt a little flat, not gonna lie. I hope you liked it, still! Hopefully the next one is more intense.


	23. Do These Tacos Taste Funny to You?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Genius and psychosis have a negative reaction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: poisoned
> 
> Spoilers for s12

The memories dissolve when Spencer leaves the BAU.

_Unhealthy state of mind_

It’s raining; he lets himself get soaked and ignores the

Voices

Touches

Sensations

that aren’t real. Not real.

_Psychotic break causing homicidal outbursts and schizoaffective tendencies_

Someone offers to take him home and tells him he isn’t alone; he’s still a member of the family, but Spencer shrugs them off and walks back to his apartment alone.

_Recent death of mother so close after traumatic undisclosed experiences in federal prison_

He sees it in his peripheral vision—the blood. Spencer blinks and it’s gone, so he turns down to his feet and focuses on getting himself through the door without incident. His waist feels light without his gun—he had just gotten used to wearing it again—and his pockets are empty.

The clock

Ticks.

He cannot be alone tonight. Maybe he should’ve taken up JJ’s offer, but was it even JJ who spoke? Maybe his mind was just playing tricks on him; he’s going to have to get used to it. 

It should feel like a blessing—being aware of the falling apart—but instead it’s just a fatal look into his future. Spencer looks back on the medieval stories and thinks about real-world; all along, he was the heir to her throne and somehow didn’t see the sword over his head.

Why doesn’t he ever see it coming?

_Yeah, I think you really liked hurting those men._

He did.

_And once that happens, you can’t ever go back._

He can’t.

_Watch me._

He’s watching, all right. Watching for the unravelling.

The clock

Keeps.

Ticking.

And Spencer loses it completely.

* * *

Genius and psychosis have a negative reaction—or maybe it’s not the latter, but psychopathy. Was it that the entire time? Maybe his brain had just been protecting itself from itself from itself from itself from itself.

He hears his mother speak more often than he wants to, and the irony is almost laughable.

It was a mistake to put his brain in a locked enclosure; even more of a mistake not to do the same thing now. Spencer has access to a plethora of cocktails and drugs from theses and lectures and recreation and memories, so the building of his armory is easier than planned.

That’s the thing, though—he doesn’t plan. He’s so hazy now that he can barely form a sentence in his head; he’s working on pure instinct. But an instinct of 187 is still deadly enough.

Mind over matter: Spencer hears

_Keep it bloodless keep it neat tuck it in your skull no one has to know_

and doesn’t know what he’s saying, but somehow he manages to carry it out.

Ammonia and laundry detergent are child’s play; Spencer takes nitrous oxide and ketamine and anything he has and mixes it, experiments on whoever he wants because he gets away with it. He always gets away with it.

Does he want to get caught?

A lot of the time, the question never crosses his mind.

The clock

Spins.

And Spencer has over one hundred calls in his voicemail box, but he just can’t bring himself to care. He’s too far gone for anyone to pull him back, so he walks out the door of his apartment with a nice pension and doesn’t look back.

He leaves a trail of bodies that will never end at him.

* * *

Lucidity is a funny thing.

Spencer dips out of the murkiness every so often for only moments, leaving him with blurry impressions of the world: a hotel. A face. A beaker. Somewhere, somewhen, but most of the time, his brain is moving on autopilot.

It’s fine until it isn’t.

It’s fine until he swims out of his daze and finds himself watching a woman suffocate from the cyanide in her liquor, and Spencer knows he caused it.

The clock

Stops.

Spencer spikes his own drink with too much Dilaudid and forces his brain to shut down.

But the clock

Starts up again.

Too late to corral his mind anymore, it seems.

* * *

A conversation harmonizing with the ticking of his brain and the beeping of a hospital and the gurgle of shaky lucidity:

_Reid._

_Tara?_

_Yeah, it’s me. You’re in the hospital. Do you know what happened?_

_No. Yes._

_Spencer...what happened? Why didn’t you tell anyone?_

_I don’t know._

_I don’t—I don’t know anything anymore._

_I don’t know, I don’t know. Why don’t I—_

_Okay. Okay, okay. You’re safe now, you hear me? All that matters is taking care of you. I promise, we’re here for you._

_Spencer._

_Spencer, can you hear me?_

_Hey, I need someone in—Reid. Spencer. Put down the syringe._

_I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t._

_Yes, you can. We’re going to help you, Spencer._

_Like you helped Nathan Harris, remember? Eleven years ago?_

_I—_

_I don—_

_Help me._

_Of course we will. Put the syringe down._

_Spencer, I don’t want to touch you. I know you don’t like that, right?_

_Okay. Just relax, okay? Put down the syringe. Lay back down._

_No._

_Spencer, don’t. We can help you. I promise you, you’re going to be okay._

_There you go. There you go, that’s it. Good. Let’s sit back down, okay?_

_Okay?_

_Hm. Hurts._

_What hurts?_

_Head. Neck. Stomach. Hm._

_Anything else?_

_Spencer. Spencer, can you hear me?_

_Could you get a doctor? I think he’s dissociating._

_Let’s run him through a CT. Pupils are unequal._

_What’s happen—oh, God._

_Hey, get a trauma team here, please?_

_Hold your hand there—where’s it coming from?_

_Why is he bleeding?_

_Hey, Emily, yeah, it’s me. I’m with Spencer, something’s wrong, he—_

_Lemme call you back._

_Let’s try and get him sitting down._

_Watch—can you hear us, sir? Dr. Reid?_

_Spencer?_

_I’m going to—whoa, catch him, catch him, catch him._

_No, no, okay, get back. Agent Lewis, I need you to time him._

_Yeah. I got it. You got him?_

_How long’s it been?_

_It’s—two minutes. That’s good, right?_

_Hey, push a—yeah, thanks. God, you’re a lifesaver._

_Get him to CCU. He’s settled now?_

_Alright, on three—one, two, three—okay, watch his head._

_Pulse is thready. How’s his pupils? Fuck, turn him._

_Do you—hey, what the—? Shit._

_No, no, I got him. I got him. Bag, please, anyone? He’s—thanks._

_Call a code. Hand me that. Is he in v-fib?_

_Yep, pads are on. Stand back; everyone clear out._

* * *

What was originally a psychotic break ended up being severe primary encephalitis which ended being an aneurysm in the center of his prefrontal cortex.

His brain burns, then suffocates, then dies.

But maybe it’s for the best.

He can rest, now that the dragon has been slayed.

But he doesn’t.

Because not even Spencer can shut his own brain down anymore.

About 50% of people who experience a ruptured brain aneurysm die within the first twenty-four hours and 66% of the survivors die within six months from complications.

Spencer has always been good at defying the odds.

Good for his friends, bad for the drinks of the people.

_Keep it bloodless keep it neat tuck it in your skull no one has to know._

They don’t.

He never tells anyone.

But maybe that’s for the best, too.

There is no one who has ever been able—no one who ever _will_ be able—to slay Spencer’s dragon.

The sword of his falling apart pierces his skull, and no one ever sees it, not until

The clock

Finally

Breaks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting the feeling that my characters lose their minds a little too often in my works...
> 
> I hope you liked this! It felt new, and it was really fun. :)


	24. What’s a Whumpee Gotta Do to Get Some Sleep Around Here?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm hasn’t slept in a week, but the consequences aren’t all what they’re cracked up to be.

Malcolm hadn’t slept in a week.

This was only unusual in the sense that he had literally _not slept at all._ Usually, he could snare thirty minutes at the least in these periods of insomnia, but the last time his eyes closed for more than ten minutes had been nearly seven days ago.

Naturally, this brought hallucinations that were more prominent than ever—or perhaps that was just his addled mind convincing itself that his entire life was hazy and therefore any moving thing was real. Nothing new, really.

Or, that was, until Malcolm lifted his head from his computer on Night 7 and promptly decided he was going insane after all.

“You’ve got to me kidding me,” he stated.

“I see you haven’t been practicing your Spanish,” the Duolingo Owl tutted, in Martin Whitly’s voice.

Malcolm sprung out of his chair, rubbing his eyes with his hands. “Oh, God.”

“A Streak Freeze was used, but you only have—oh, my.” Martin-Duo gave a sad click of his tongue. “Looks like there aren’t enough gems in your chest to pay for another.”

“Oh, God,” Malcolm repeated, squeezing his eyes shut.

“I don’t think God can do a whole lot for you anymore,” Martin-Duo murmured, shaking his head. “You, _mijo,_ are pretty stretched for luck.”

Malcolm pressed his palms into his eyes. “Get out of my head.”

“We both know it’s not that easy.”

There was something in Martin-Duo’s voice that made Malcolm pause, however. Despite the fact that his father was now a bright green animatronic owl, he was still his father, and that meant—

“I’ll tell you what,” Martin-Duo declared, as if on cue. “Why don’t we make a deal?”

The average person would not respond to this—if the average person was experiencing their serial killer father flapping wings and speaking Spanish—but, as you may know by now, Malcolm has been making bad decisions for nearly 23 days in a row now, and that, if not Duolingo, is a streak he is bound to withhold.

So Malcolm hung his head. “What’s the deal?” He chuckled to himself. “Are you going to make me beg for my life in Spanish?”

“Actually,” Martin-Duo replied, taking a step forward, “that was _exactly_ what I was going to do.” A sinister grin crept over his features. “‘Great minds think alike’ is just the _perfect_ phrase to use, isn’t it?”

“What?”

Martin-Duo took a few steps forward, and Malcolm stepped backward, walking until he felt his back hit the wall.

“I want you to repeat after me,” Martin-Duo directed, his voice low and dangerous. He leaned to the side, grabbing fireplace poker from where it leaned against the table, and pressed the tip lightly against Malcolm’s chest. “ _Por favor.”_

Malcolm squeezed his eyes shut. “It’s not real.”

The point dug deeper, not yet breaking the flesh. _“Por. Favor.”_

Distantly, Malcolm wondered if this was how some of the Surgeon’s victims felt.

Did they beg for their lives?

Before he could think more of it, the poker slid into his chest.

“ _Por favor!”_ Malcolm sputtered out, slamming his head against the wall and squeezing his eyes shut against the pain. He sucked in a breath that didn’t quite fill his lungs. _“Por favor, por favor! Salvar mi vida._ Please.”

Martin-Duo paused. “Did you say _salvar?”_

“Yes!” Malcolm grit out, wrapping one hand around the rod in his chest. “Yes, _sí,_ yes, _salvar mi vida. Ayudame, ayu—!”_

He cracked open his eyes, trying and failing to gasp another breath in. In front of him, Martin-Duo remained expressionless, lost in deep thought, contemplating what to do next.

After a moment, he said, very quietly, _“Salva.”_

 _“‘Salva’?”_ Malcolm echoed.

“You said _salvar.”_ The rod went deeper into his chest with a sickeningly slick sound. “You forgot to _conjugate_ the _verb,_ Malcolm!”

Malcolm coughed, bringing up blood that warmed the back of his throat and made his stomach constrict in panic. He tried to choke out a correction, but found it hard to speak save for the minute bursts of air breaking from his vocal chords.

The handle of the fireplace poker touched his skin.

Things got blurry after that.

“What should I do?” Martin-Duo murmured, crouching down—when had they gotten to the floor?

Malcolm emitted a weak groan, rolling his head to the side to face him, but all he received was a pat on the cheek.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Martin chastised softly, “it was your own fault.I tried and tried, didn’t I? But alas,” he sighed, shaking his head, “it looks like you weren’t getting my notifications.” He straightened, sitting back on his...well, what would have been his heels. “So what do we do with you?”

“Dad,” Malcolm croaked weakly.

 _“Dad,”_ Martin-Duo mimicked, “ _Help me, Dad. Please._ Those are not words I understand, Malcolm. You have to say it right.”

_“Pa—”_

“Oh, no,” Martin-Duo interrupted, covering his mouth. Malcolm wasn’t sure whether or not it felt like a hand or a wing. “Too late, _mijo.”_ He took the fireplace poker and dragged it across the top of Malcolm’s head, gently brushing his hair aside. “Why can’t you remember?”

_Why can’t you remember?_

Remember what?

At this point, Malcolm felt like there were too many things in his life that he’d forgotten.

“I think I’ll pick your brain about it,” Martin-Duo decided.

So he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Captain’s Log, Day 6. Duo hasn’t found out yet, but sitting in this little hideout of mine, listening to the sounds of the polyglots’ battle cries, I can’t help but give up hope. They’re coming for me. Oh, yes...it’s only a matter of time.


	25. You’re Not Making Any Sense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here are some out-of-context WIPs!
> 
> ((INCLUDES ALTERNATE ENDINGS FOR DAY #10))

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: blindfolded 
> 
> (sort of. You are the “blindfolded” one here. Just pretend it makes sense.)
> 
> (Actually, don’t! The title says not to and I am both one for rules and weirding people the hell out xD)

**#10 - THEY LOOK SO PRETTY WHEN THEY BLEED - ALTERNATE ENDINGS**

_#1._

Hotch shot to his feet. “Did she survive?”

After a moment, the doctor just gave a minute shake of his head.

No one did anything at first. Everyone just stared at the doctor, all telepathically willing him to change his mind, to assure them that yes, there were some complications, but they weren’t fatal. Because they weren’t. Because they couldn’t be.

Kate and Will trailed back into the room, their expressions blank. They each took a seat on either side of Rossi, staring at their shoes.

Hotch took a seat himself.

Morgan spoke first. “Did she suffer?”

“At first,” the doctor admitted quietly. “The GSWs caused a lot of pain, but she went into shock in the ambulance before she coded the first time. It would’ve been, at a guess…” He swallowed, trying to pull himself together. “It would have been like falling asleep.”

Will bent over, hugging his stomach tightly with a broken sob, and Rossi grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him into his chest. Will’s cries were silent and devastating, so devastating that Hotch turned away and Morgan ran his hands over his scalp, looking like he needed to punch something. He probably did.

“I’m so sorry,” the doctor said softly.

Rossi gave him a small nod, holding Will tighter to himself and looking at Morgan with broken eyes. Morgan looked just as at a loss.

A crash from the bathroom caught Hotch’s attention.

Nodding to the others, he followed the noise and tested the knob—unlocked. Pushing the door open slowly, he found Spencer bunched up in a small corner of the room with his back to the door and his knees to his chest, hitting his head against the wall.

“Reid,” Hotch said quietly.

Spencer stopped hitting his head, but didn’t turn to face him. “She’s dead.”

Hotch didn’t know what to say. _Yes?_ What would that do?

He didn’t need to answer; Spencer kept speaking. “I should’ve stayed with her.” He knocked his head against the wall again, once. “I should’ve gone with him.” Another knock. “It never...I don’t—” He hit his head a third time, the works breaking off in a sob.

“I know,” Hotch breathed, not knowing what to do.

A high, uncharacteristically feral whine rose in Spencer’s throat, making Hotch’s chest squeeze. “I’m sorry. I’m never—I’m never gonna—I’m sorry.”

“Me too.”

Spencer curled tighter into himself, burying his face between his legs and rocking unsteadily. Hotch walked over and turned on the faucet, sticking his hands under the spray, but after a few seconds, he gave up and fisted his hair tightly. The water turned pink before bubbling down the drain.

Outside, Rossi talked to one of the doctors about funeral arrangements.

Outside, Kate and Morgan hugged each other tightly.

Outside, Will pulled out his phone and took a few breaths before saying, “Hey, Hen.” He paused, bringing a hand to his lip to chew on the skin in between his thumb and forefinger. “Yeah, um...Jaime’s gonna bring you up here. Sound fun? No, I—Mama can’t talk right now. Could you give the phone to Jaime, please?”

And no one did much after that.

_#2._

Hotch shot to his feet. “Did she survive?”

The doctor removed his cap, wiping a sheen of sweat from his forehead.

He smiled.

“Someone call Will and Kate,” Rossi directed, sinking back into a chair. “Morgan—get Reid?”

Heaving a relieved sigh, Morgan started towards the bathroom with a nod. Hotch pulled out his phone to dial Kate, and moments later, she and Will were hurrying into the waiting room with wide, exhausted smiles.

“Were there any problems?” Will asked the doctor.

He nodded. “Agent Jareau came in with two GSW’s to the abdomen, and she showed signs of manual strangulation. This obviously made it hard to breathe and sedate her for the surgery, and that combined with the blood loss caused her to go into cardiac arrest. But,” he added quickly, upon noticing everyone’s stricken expressions, “we stabilized her quickly. I can’t let you in the room just yet, but once they get her to recovery, you’ll be able to see her. We have her on a ventilator, but it’s a precautionary measure more than anything.”

“Thank you,” Hotch murmured, shaking his hand. He turned back to the team. “Everyone, I want you to go back to the hotel. JJ’s not going anywhere, and she’d want us at our best.

Too tired to argue, the team trailed out, one by one, until only Hotch and Will remained.

“I’m gonna stay, if that’s alright,” Will muttered at the ground.

Hotch nodded. “Of course.”

“And what about you?” Hotch didn’t reply. “It wasn’t your fault, Hotch. She woulda’ had things go the same way if she could, I know it. And she sure as hell wouldn’t want you to blame yourself.”

“I know,” Hotch replied softly, watching Morgan tug a worn Spencer from the bathroom. “But it happened on my watch.”

Will gave him a tight smile, biting his lip when he noticed the blood that had dried up to Hotch’s forearms. “Thank you. She really loves you all.”

“And you.”

Spencer broke away from Morgan and stumbled over to Hotch and Will, a faint smile passing his lips. “She lived?”

“She did,” Will replied with a small chuckle of relief, giving him a pat on the shoulder. “She’s okay, Spence.”

But Spencer wasn’t happy anymore; rather, his face crumpled. “I’m so sorry.”

“Hey, none of that,” Will replied firmly, taking him by the shoulders and pulling him into a hug. “Just relax, okay? They’re taking her to recovery and then you can listen to her scold you for thinking it’s your fault. Right?”

Spencer laughed shakily, careful of keeping the soapy water on his hands away from Will’s shirt. He put his chin on Will’s shoulder and glanced up at Hotch, giving him a watery smile. Hotch returned the gesture.

Will pulled away from the hug, giving Spencer another reassuring smile. “Let’s go see her, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

They followed a doctor through the doors. Hotch watched them go before turning to the bathroom.

The blood ran down the drain, and with it, the fear.

Hotch smiled.

  
  
  
  


**THE CHAIN - CHAPTER ???**

A creaking announced a new presence in the small cabin, moving slowly. The team turned to look at him, conversations falling silent.

Malcolm kept his eyes on ((X)), stopping by their head. His expression was unreadable.

“Malcolm,” Gil started to say, but his voice trailed off.

After another moment, Malcolm dragged his head up slowly, eyes hollow. His voice was raw and broken. “I was too late.”

Gil just stared, shaking his head slightly, but the words wouldn’t come out.

Malcolm turned away and walked out the door.

Glancing back at the body on the ground, Gil gave a few more numb orders to the forensics team around them, forcing himself to take a report and copy down the words that had been scraped into the floor next to ((X))’s face.

  
  


**FUTURE WHUMPTOBER SNIPS!**

Malcolm danced his fingers over the curve of the blade. “I should have sharpened these when I had the chance,” he sighed. “I’ll add that to my self-care list—if I survive that is,” he added with a grimace.

Another noise from across the loft caught his attention.

“Hello?” Malcolm asked, keeping his back to the wall and holding the axe out in front of him like a sword. “Whoever’s there...I just want to let you know that you’re in the presence of a two-time silver-medal axe thrower. So...yeah. You might want to rethink whatever you’re about to do.”

Unfortunately for Malcolm, two silver medals didn’t do much against the gun that swung at his face as soon as he turned a corner.

——————————

“Fine,” Spencer mumbled, though his blurry vision begged to differ. He dragged a shaky hand across his face to clear the dull throb that seemed to settle behind his eyes. “M’fine.”

But something still wasn’t right. Spencer ran his fingers past the locks, to the seat where Alex was fixed to. Wires. Maybe he should know what they meant, but the others were waiting anxiously for him to get the chains undone, so he dropped his hands back and continued to work.

_Forty moves per game not a stalemate twenty five moves white goes first think think._ But those were basic facts. He needed something—the missing piece. _Zugzwang. Zugzwang. Alex is in zugzwang because she cannot move. Any move is a checkmate. On a board of—_ no, pay attention— _Gideon would know._

——————————

A bubbling laugh escaped his throat, but it sounded like it would turn into a sob at any moment.

Dr. Higa remained impassive. “Martin,” he said carefully, “you need to accept the truth.”

“What _truth?”_ Martin snickered. “There’s no _truth._ Truth is—well, it’s, uh...” He waved his hand dismissively. “It’s just that.”

“Just _what?_ Martin, you—”

“It’s _nothing,”_ Martin interrupted, his voice dripping with venom. He shook his head vehemently. “It’s _nothing_ and it’s— _not. True.”_

——————————

“How far of a drop do you think that is?” Malcolm asked with a grimace.

“Um...thirty-four feet,” Spencer replied, biting his lip. Off Malcolm’s surprised expression, he explained, “I heard one of the nurses say so earlier.”

“You’re lying,” Malcolm stated.

Spencer swallowed. “About the height or the nurse?” Malcolm waited. “Well, both. It’s forty-two feet and I saw it on the brochure when I came into the emergency room two days ago. I was trying to be optimistic,” he added weakly.

——————————

_Gotta stay clean gotta keep away from MARSHALL. He doesn’t know just yet but it’s only a matter of time. He always knows he always finds me. Honor thy father honor thy father have to HONOR THY FATHER. He says fathers and sons have an unbreakable relationship and he’s right. Just don’t know how long I can keep this up._

**ABANDONED HANNIBAL WIP**

Here’s how to survive a swan dive off a twenty-foot cliff into a raging sea.

There are many variables to address in a harrowing situation such as this, like taking said swan dive whilst clinging to your former therapist for dear life—a dear life you may or may not have in a few moments.

Add a knife wound to the face, take into account the fact that you’re both on the FBI’s Most Wanted list for serial homicide, and also keep in mind that one of you is a cannibal and _both_ of you just flipped your shit on a paper-munching psycho killer.

Needless to say, Will Graham was not in an ideal situation.

  
  


**SO DAWN GOES DOWN TO DAY (Part ⅞ of NOTHING GOLD CAN STAY) WIP**

_Despite popular belief, Martin Whitly had an ordinary childhood._

“No, you didn’t,” Dr. Higa announced unhelpfully, tapping a clipboard in his lap. “Remember what we’ve been saying about lying, Martin?”

Marin scowled. “Are you reading the 1989 reports?”

“I am. It says here that—”

“What it _says,”_ Martin snarled, “is a bunch of nonsense. I’m here to tell everyone the _real_ story.” His eyes turned dangerously cold, and he clenched his fists. “Now, _let. Me. Speak.”_

Dr. Higa simply sighed. “Go on, Martin.”

“Thank you.”

_Despite popular belief, Martin Whitly had an ordinary childhood._

  
  


**UNTITLED WIP**

“This isn’t an interrogation, Dr. Lewis. It’s an investigation. And however pointless it may seem, it _is_ necessary. My job is to get to the root of the incident and the events leading up to it.”

“‘The incident’ as in the arrest.”

“Yes.” Dr. Finn folded his hands and placed them in his lap. “I’m here to learn not only the details of the case, but the reasons why it ended the way that it did. Specifically, I need to know about Dr. Reid: who he was, how he acted...”

“What he did,” Tara finished for him.

Dr. Finn nodded, eyes solemn. “What he did,” he agreed softly. He placed his folded hands on top of the desk, leaning in. “Now. Tell me everything you can.”

Tara met his gaze. “It started with a phone call.”

**UNTITLED WIP**

Gil pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. “So, you’re telling me—”

“Our killer’s on a mission,” Dani affirmed with a sigh.

Malcolm swept his gaze around the park. “Twelve victims,” he murmured, “twelve days of Christmas.”

“And a Happy New Year,” JT finished dismally.

**JOKE PROMPT FILL - DAY 15 - MAGIC HEALING**

_I was super tempted to do this because I had just rewatched The Job and there was NO CRUNCHY CRACK aftermath so I was BITTER_

”What the hell?” JT muttered.

Malcolm twisted. “What?”

”Wasn’t your head bleeding a moment ago?”

”Ah, right. That’s the healing.”

”The what?”

Malcolm looked a little sheepish when he explained, “It’s called plot armor. We still have more to get done and important things need to be addressed. It’s inconvenient for me to get hurt right now.”

”And after the ‘important things’ are done?” JT asked hesitantly.

Malcolm just shrugged. “Then I can collapse, bleed out, and live by the skin of my teeth.”

”Who the hell would want that to happen?”

”More people than you’d expect,” Malcolm replied mysteriously, with a knowing glance.

**MINI GIFT: FOR APPALACHIAN APOLOGIES!**

_It was only a matter of time before the repercussions of Spencer-induced stress got to Hotch..._

“Something’s wrong,” Spencer murmured, halfway through Rossi’s pasta lesson.

Everyone’s smiles faltered.

“You okay, Pretty Boy?” Morgan asked, setting down his fork.

Slowly, Spencer shook his head before bringing a hand to his throat, coughing hard, sending everyone into a panic—even more so when red liquid started to bubble at the corner of his lips.

“Shit, Reid!” Emily barked, grabbing a washcloth to press against his mouth. “Are you okay? What’s happening?”

She brought the cloth to his face, but a moment later, something made her pull back.

“I’m calling an ambulance,” Rossi announced, leaving the room.

But Emily and Spencer both sprang to their feet, shouting in unison, “Wait, don’t!”

Rossi paused in the doorway. “What do you mean, ‘don’t’?”

Everyone realized it at once, as Spencer and Emily dissolved into a fit of giggles. Deflating into his seat, Morgan snatched the cloth from Emily and cracked it hard against Spencer’s head—something he probably deserved.

“Give me that,” Garcia snapped, dabbing the tears from her eyes before taking her own hit. She did so again. “Don’t!” _Whack!_ ”Scare!” _Whack!_ ”Me!” _Whack! “_ Like!” _Whack!_ ”That!” _Whack! Whack!_

Spencer grabbed the cloth and held it to his face, wiping away the Jell-O from his lips. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” he exclaimed sheepishly, grinning in a way that definitely seemed not sorry. “I’m sorry, I won’t do that! I won’t do that.”

Everyone released relieved snickers of their own, once the fear had subsided—all for Hotch, who was staring at Spencer like he was broken. Maybe he was.

“Hotch?” Spencer asked hesitantly, his smile fading. He swallowed. “Are you okay?”

As if on cue, Hotch doubled over, groping at his stomach with a groan.

Everyone panicked again.

“Aaron?” Rossi asked worriedly, as Morgan bent over to inspect him. “What’s wrong?”

“Stomach,” Hotch grit out, coughing. “It—I think I’m bleeding internally. Foyet—the stab wounds—”

_“What?”_ Garcia cried, pulling out a cell phone.

And—to everyone’s surprise—Hotch stopped suddenly and straightened, completely placid. “No need, Garcia.”

Everyone blinked.

Morgan closed his eyes. “Oh, you have _got_ to be kidding me.”

“That’s what you deserve,” Hotch simpered, relaxing back into his seat with crossed arms. “Spencer, you understand how serious things are. I don’t want to see you pull a stunt like that _ever_ again.”

This time, Spencer had the grace to look ashamed. “Sorry, sir,” he mumbled at his plate, shoveling a mouthful of spaghetti into his face.

Hotch nodded, before his face broke into a grin—something scarier than seeing him in pain. “I got you good, didn’t I?”

Spencer gave a weak chuckle, nodding meekly before taking another bite. With exhausted sighs, the dinner dissolved into silence.

Until Spencer dropped his fork and started to choke on his pasta.

“Oh, come on, Reid,” Morgan whined, “ever heard of the boy who cried wolf?”

But Spencer didn’t stop gagging. He clutched at his throat and got up from the table, giving Morgan a wide-eyed expression.

“Reid?”

The coughs turned to strangled gasps.

“Oh, fuck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I hope you enjoyed these little snips! Lots of insanity to come—for both Whumptober and beyond!
> 
> As always—thanks for your comments and readings and all that jazz, it makes my day :)


	26. I Think I’ll Just Collapse Right Here, Thanks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That helicopter crash had so many possibilities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: disorientation / blurred vision / ringing ears
> 
> Spoilers for s08e24 “The Replicator”

_Mayday. Mayday._

_“What’s happening?”_ Garcia asked over the comms, her voice nearly drowned out by the alarms that started blaring in the chopper.

_Mayday. Mayday._

“Autopilot’s seized,” the pilot replied worriedly, trying a few buttons.

_“Oh, God.”_

Another warning bell pierced the air, and the chopper shook harder, sending the pilot and Hotch into a confused frenzy as they tried to locate the source of the problem.

_Mayday. May—_

The helicopter slowed, then swerved in a shaky line back upright, and everyone exhaled.

“I got it back,” the pilot announced.

 _“Are you okay?”_ Garcia demanded.

“We’ve stabilized,” Hotch assured her.

Garcia let out a heavy sigh, and the helicopter tilted upward, returning to its place in the sky. Spencer exchanged a relieved glance with Alex.

But it didn’t last.

_MAYDAY. MAYDAY._

“Garcia?” Hotch called, but all he got was static in response.

The chopper gave another violent jerk. Spencer and Alex scrambled to get a hold of something onboard to stabilize themselves, gripping the handles fixed to the wall for dear life. Hotch scanned the control board, as if willing himself to learn how to get the helicopter under control—he probably was. But next to him, the pilot looked grim.

“What’s happening?” Alex shouted over the beeping.

“I—I don’t know,” the pilot admitted, hands fluttering over different buttons and knobs to reveal nothing. “It’s like all the controls have been deactivated somehow.”

Hotch grit his teeth against the ringing that was slowly building up in his ears. “We have to figure something out.”

“Something’s wrong,” Spencer announced suddenly, his voice scarily calm.

Alex turned to face him. “Do you know how to land a plane?”

“No, it’s…” Spencer shook his head, coughing a little bit, before bending forwards, fingers feeling for something on the ground.

“What are you doing?”

“I don’t—do you smell that? Smells...something’s not right, I think…”

His words trailed off suddenly as his entire body went lax, just as the chopper thrusted downwards again, and Alex panicked. “Reid?”

“What happened?” Hotch demanded, trying to twist around.

Alex didn’t answer; she grabbed Spencer by the shoulder and pushed him back into his seat with a concerned frown. “Spencer?”

“Brace for impact!” the pilot shouted suddenly.

Alex grabbed Spencer’s face, searching his eyes for something that could give her a clue to what was causing his catonia. His eyelids had dropped until she could barely see his pupils, blown-out and dull. A moment later, his eyes slid shut entirely.

That’s when she smelled the “something”.

“Cover your mouth!” Alex exclaimed, tugging her own shirt over her face. “Something—Spencer was saying something about the smell. Spencer?” she tried again, keeping one hand on his face as she groped for a stable hold on the helicopter with the other. 

Spencer’s head listed forward, and so did his entire body, until Alex was left half-holding him up as he hung suspended by his seat belt.

“Wha’ppened?” Hotch asked, but his words were slurred, which made everyone nervous.

“Don’t know,” Alex replied helplessly. “He’s—I think someone’s drugging us.”

“Reid,” Hotch called again, but got no response.

Alex leaned to the side again, giving up on trying to rouse Spencer and instead dropping her head on top of her knees to brace for impact.

She faded out just before they hit the ground.

* * *

Eight letters shouldn’t have given Spencer this much trouble.

Alex looked on expectantly, patient despite the obvious anxiety flashing across her face as she took account of her chains. Spencer fumbled with the different combinations, trying to force his brain to unscramble as he spoke.

_Eight keys two four six letters not letters keys eight letters six keys._

_Eight letters. Six keys. Eight minus six—_

“There’s only six keys,” he noted. “That means two keys will be used twice.”

_GNUZAW 143625_

“Each key is a letter—likely, corresponding to the number on the locks.”

_Think of the word. What is the word? 142536. 615342. 125346. 123456._

“What are the other letters?” someone asked.

_Anagram. 123456. AGNWZ. ZWNGA. AGN. ZWU._

“Um, Z—”

_UNG. ZUNG. ZUG._

“—U—”

_WAG. NAG. WAN._

“—W—”

_ZUG. WAN._

“—Zugzwang,” Spencer realized. He slid his tongue over his lips, confused. “It’s too easy.” 

Despite this, he worked to slide each key in the locks, undoing them one by one. His hands didn’t really seem like they wanted to cooperate with what his brain wanted them to do; he kept dropping the locks and had to pause in order to focus on reading the letters. The dim light was giving him a headache.

“Everything okay?” Hotch asked, putting a hand on his shoulder to steady him.

“Fine,” Spencer mumbled, though his blurry vision begged to differ. He dragged a shaky hand across his face to clear the dull throb that seemed to settle behind his eyes. “M’fine.”

But something still wasn’t right. Spencer ran his fingers past the locks, to the seat where Alex was fixed to. Wires. Maybe he should know what they meant, but the others were waiting anxiously for him to get the chains undone, so he dropped his hands back and continued to work.

_Forty moves per game not a stalemate twenty five moves white goes first think think._ But those were basic facts. He needed something—the missing piece. _Zugzwang. Zugzwang. Alex is in zugzwang because she cannot move. Any move is a checkmate. On a board of—_ no, pay attention— _Gideon would know._

“Easy,” Hotch murmured, suddenly close, and Spencer suddenly realized he was tipping sideways. His hands were warm and damp on Spencer’s back. “Reid, want me to help? Maybe—”

“No,” Spencer interrupted, balancing himself on his knees and blinking the locks into focus. “No, I can do this.” 

The room settled into uneasy, doubtful silence.

“I can _do this,”_ Spencer insisted, fumbling with the keys.

No one argued, but if they did, Spencer didn’t hear them.

_ZUGZWANG. Z U G Z W A N G. German. What’s the other definition? Alex would know._ But Alex was stuck. _Alex is in zugzwang_ . The chains and the locks prevented her movement. _She couldn’t move._

She couldn’t move.

“Zugzwang also means a dilemma in chess where the best move is not to move at all,” Spencer said aloud, and it clicked.

_She couldn’t move._

She _literally_ could. Not. Move.

“Wait, don’t get up!” Spencer exclaimed, just as Alex stood up. “It’s a pressure sensor.”

The door slammed shut.

Everything after that was a blur.

* * *

No one really knew the exact moment the door opened, but when it did, the team scurried out of the building like hamsters, moving rapidly to get away from the bombs planted inside. Outside, SWAT and the other tactical teams formed a small semicircle, and Hotch delivered the news quickly, sending everyone farther away from the house. Moments later, a pair of ambulances and the bomb squad rolled onto the grass, waiting for a signal.

Alex swiveled her head to take everyone into account: Morgan, JJ, Hotch, herself—

“Where’s Rossi?” Spencer realized.

Everyone flew into a momentary panic as they glanced among each other to no avail. Morgan looked like he wanted to go back into the building, but a moment later, the front door opened and Rossi jogged outside to meet them, waving his arms frantically— _GO!_

As if on cue, the entire place exploded.

Shielding her eyes against the sudden light, Alex got down and pulled herself around Spencer, who didn’t seem to be bothered by the fact that Curtis’s house had just gone up in flames—in fact, he seemed eerily out of it, allowing her to bring him into her with her back to the explosion without a word.

Before Alex had time to dwell on it, however, Hotch doubled over and clapped his hands over his ears, groaning through his teeth.

Rossi was on it immediately, putting his hands on Hotch’s shoulders and trying to keep him standing still, but Hotch staggered away from the contact and sank to his knees with his palms still firmly fixed on either side of his head. 

While Alex waved over a medic, Morgan tugged Spencer away from the crowd and stopped in a clearer patch of sizzling grass. “You okay?”

“Hotch?” Spencer asked, turning to where Hotch was being led away by Rossi and the EMTs. “Wha’s wrong with Hotch? Is it his ears?”

“Yeah, it is,” Morgan replied with a worried frown. “You don’t look so good.”

In the orange glow of the fire, he could see Spencer’s face now, struggling to focus on him. A quick inspection revealed nothing obvious—or, that was, until Morgan felt along either side of his head and his fingers came back wet.

“Shit, Reid,” he said, holding his hand up. “Why didn’t you say you were bleeding?”

Spencer squinted. “Oh.” He shrugged. “Didn’ notice, I guess.”

“You’re slurring,” Morgan added. “You hit your head on something? Maybe you should sit down.”

“Uh…” Spencer shrugged again, but it was like a switch had been turned on—or, rather, off. Now that he danced his fingers along his hairline, he seemed to feel the pain of his injury, and he winced. “Ow. Helicopter?”

“You guys okay?” Alex called, breaking from the group. “Spencer?”

Morgan opened his mouth to explain, but before he could, Spencer swayed on his feet and latched himself onto Alex in a constricting hug.

“Everything alright?” she cautioned, startled.

“No,” Spencer said, then swallowed. “No, s’fine. Just...” He rested his head on her shoulder with a tired sigh, hair tickling her neck. “M’glad you’re okay.”

Morgan looked on with sad eyes as Alex wrapped her arms tighter around Spencer’s waist. “I’m glad you’re okay, too. Wanna get out of here?” 

But Spencer didn’t respond—rather, in a moment, the weight around Alex’s shoulders increased dramatically as Spencer’s hold on her shoulders slackened and his body sank into the grass; first his knees, then his hips, until Alex was struggling to keep him upright.

“Shit—I got him, I got him,” Morgan assured her, taking his weight to lower him to the ground. “Reid? Hey, talk to us, kid.”

No response. Alex crouched down and searched his face, palmed his neck. His skin, despite the roaring flames in the distance, was surprisingly cold, and upon turning his head to the side Alex discovered the blood matting his hair to his temple and running down his jawline.

“He’s got a laceration on his head,” she announced, as Morgan worked on unstrapping his vest. “Spencer?”

Spencer’s eyes flicked open and shut—if Alex blinked, she would have missed it. Morgan tugged the vest from his chest and moved around Alex to feel around for any injuries. Save for the seatbelt bruising that was starting to form on his torso, however, he found nothing. Still, Spencer remained stubbornly unconscious, and it worried him.

“Is he in shock?” Alex asked desperately, tugging off her jacket to slide under his head. “After we were drugged in the helicopter—”

“After you _what?”_ Morgan exclaimed.

“—did he say anything?”

“Um—I think he hit his head on the way down. Did you see anything?”

Alex shook her head, trying to keep the anxiety at bay. “Maybe it’s a concussion.”

With a defeated sigh, Morgan turned back to Spencer and moved to his feet, struggling a little bit before raising his legs to his shoulders. “Let’s get some blood flowing. Is he cold? Shaky?”

“A little,” Alex replied, brushing hair out of his eyes. “Reid, can you hear us?”

“Come on, kid,” Morgan chimed in, bringing himself to a standing position with Spencer’s legs resting on his chest. “Now’s not the time. Come back to us.” When Spencer still didn’t wake up, he turned to the medic standing idly by as his parter worked on Hotch. “Hey, we need some help over here!”

The noise was enough. “Hm?” Spencer mumbled, blinking open his eyes. He rolled his head over to Alex. “Bl’ke?”

“Hey there,” Alex replied with a smile. “You okay?”

Spencer squeezed his eyes shut for a moment before letting his gaze wander to the sky. “H’rts.”

“Yeah, you knocked your noggin pretty good,” Morgan replied.

His voice brought Spencer’s eyes to the source of his numb feet. “What’re you…?”

“Holding your legs up.”

“Hm. Stp’t.”

“Just say thank you,” Morgan simpered, keeping his legs where they were.

“Thank you,” Spencer echoed with a smile, before his brow creased again. “Recovery’s better. Head...um, leg bent. Sidetah th’thing.”

“What?”

Spencer’s nose twitched. “Y’re doing it wrong.”

“Oh, I’m doing this _wrong?”_ Morgan scoffed, though he couldn’t bite back the smile leaking into his voice. “Okay, smartass, next time, I’ll just let you bonk your brain on the ground—and you nearly did, by the way. Give us a warning next time you decide to pass out, will you?” 

“Okay,” Spencer hummed, before promptly announcing, after a moment, “warning.”

Morgan’s grin faltered. “Wait, what?”

The medic jogged over to the three of them just as Spencer went limp again, eyes threatening to roll back. “What happened?”

“Um—he collapsed,” Morgan said, dumbfounded. “Adrenaline or something, I—we don’t know.”

“Put his legs down, please?” The medic knelt opposite Alex and pulled out a stethoscope. “I’m going to turn him to the side; it should help him breathe a little easier. Does he have any known injuries?”

“He might have a concussion,” Alex supplied, taking Spencer’s hand in hers. “He was in a helicopter crash about an hour ago, but he seemed fine until now.”

“Head injuries aren’t good once the adrenaline goes away,” the medic affirmed, feeling around. “How was he immediately after the impact—was he in pain? Did he fall unconscious?”

“No—yes?—I dunno, he was...um, just spacey,” Morgan replied weakly, feeling useless. “Uh—we didn’t really notice.”

With a small nod, the medic nudged Alex away before turning Spencer onto his side, ducking into his field of vision. “What’s his name?”

“Rei—uh, Dr. Spencer Reid. He’s got an allergy to penicillin-type meds. I think.”

“Spencer, my name is Kai and I’m a paramedic,” Kai said, his voice uncomfortably loud. “I’m here to help you. Can you hear me?” Spencer closed his eyes. “Hey. Spencer, can you open your eyes for me? I’m gonna touch your belly; do you feel any pain when I do this? Spencer?”

Alex kept her hands around his, squeezing slightly. It felt wrong, not being able to see what was going on, and next to her, she knew Morgan felt just as helpless. Concussions didn’t usually end up being serious, but this lack of response was concerning, and part of her wanted to slap herself for not noticing anything earlier.

The feeling was familiar.

“There we go,” Kai said warmly, after a moment. “Welcome back. Can you tell me your name? The year?”

“Reid,” Spencer replied lethargically, swallowing a little. “Sp—hm.” He winced. “Back where? Where’d—ow.”

“Ow is right,” Kai muttered, prodding the gash on his temple. “You hit your head. Are you feeling any pain?”

“Yes,” Spencer replied quietly, his words muddled. “Lil’ ligh’ead—mm...not good. Wherem’I?”

“You’re on the Curtis property,” Kai explained, examining him as he spoke. “Your friends say you were in a helicopter crash. Do you remember that?” Spencer frowned. “Okay. That’s okay. You’ve got a concussion—eyes on the light, please?—and you might be in shock, but my partner’s on the way—hey, stop moving, buddy, just relax—we’re going to take you to the hospital. I know you’re pretty confused, kind of sleepy, right?” Spencer hummed. “Yeah. You have to try and stay awake, though, okay? Don’t worry about anything else. Can you do that?”

“No,” Spencer deadpanned. He thought for a moment. “Hotch?”

“Hotch’s ears are a little out of whack,” Morgan explained, “but he’s gonna be fine. So are you.”

Spencer seemed satisfied with that, and he squeezed Alex’s hand. “Can’ we stay?”

“You have to go with Kai,” Alex replied, trying to be soothing as she moved her hand to his hair. “But it’s in-and-out. We’ll be back before the sun rises, okay?”

“Okay,” Spencer agreed, smiling softly. “In-and-out.”

“Yeah.”

_That is, unless your brain is bleeding,_ she wanted to add, but decided against it. _Unless you’re dying and we don’t know it._

Spencer squeezed her hand again, his eyes sympathetic—but why? He didn’t know about it.

Should he know about it?

Alex pushed away the thought. Despite the concussion, Spencer would be okay, and in a matter of hours, things would be more-or-less back to normal.

_And his injury had a_ _name,_ her mind supplied unhelpfully. _And he could be cured._

Alex shook her head.

_Don’t think about that. He’s okay._

That was fine.

He was okay, and so was she.

Anything else could wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOLY CRAP THAT WAS SO MUCH WHUMP. Maybe it didn’t seem like it, but I feel like that was the whumpiest fic in this series. Wow. That was hard.


	27. If You Thought the Head Trauma Was Bad...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spencer goes undercover in an attempt to expose a human trafficking ring. It doesn’t go well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: concussion
> 
> (But that’s the least of his concerns lol)  
> (I guess you could say, if you thought the head trauma was bad...)
> 
> Takes place around s14

_“Dr. Reid, I’ve got eyes over your left shoulder. Do you copy?”_

Spencer gave a minute nod; a small thumbs up at his side without turning around. Seated at the counter of a small Manhattan bar, he took a swig of Sprite and waited for Elizabeth Terry to show up.

Terry, age 32, was a serial abductor, killer, and dominatrix—not to mention a potential mob boss. Over thirty men had disappeared in the past year, all with ties to human trafficking rings. It was Spencer’s job to pose as a conman who needed his business partner offed and a way to get across the border to Canada without anyone on his trail.

Now, Terry hadn’t shown up. Spencer took another sip of his drink before risking a glance around, avoiding eye contact with Matt and Rossi as he did so. He flashed a glance at the security camera nestled in the corner, where he knew Emily and Kevin watched from a truck two blocks down.

_“We got a visual,”_ Emily’s voice hummed in his ear. _“She’s walking into the bar. Everyone stand by. Reid, you need to be extremely cautious. NYPD’s got a man in the ICU and all she did was kiss him.”_

Spencer turned back to the bar, setting his glass on the table. Moments later, a delicate hand rested on his shoulder, and he resisted the urge to flinch away.

“Mr. Rollins,” Terry greeted cooly, taking a seat next to him. “Pleased to finally meet you in person.”

“I have what you need and you have what I need,” Spencer replied without turning his head. “Let’s exchange business and both of us can be on our way.”

“Why so rushed?” Terry purred, taking his chin in her hand.

Spencer let her guide his head to face her. “You know why.”

The corner of Terry’s mouth quirked, but she didn’t smile. “This isn’t a matter to be discussed in a bar.”

“Ms. Terry—”

“Liz, please.”

“Liz,” Spencer corrected himself.

_“She’s being casual,”_ Emily said. _“She’s trying to lure you; you have to stay here.”_

But how? “Liz,” Spencer said again, “I’m not going anywhere.”

“You’re sparky,” Liz smirked. “And you also know, with your—” She swiveled in her seat, taking in the people in the bar, “— _background_...you should know that it isn’t so cut-and-dry.”

“Isn’t it?” Spencer countered. “My partner said you people specialize in making sure the case alway goes cold.”

“Your partner’s wrong,” Liz simpered, crossing her legs. An almost condescending smile spread across her face. “We make sure the case never becomes a case to begin with.”

Spencer returned the gesture. “Now, that’s the Elizabeth Terry I know.”

“Back to business,” Liz declared, folding her hands on the counter. “You know that in order for this to work, I need to know everything about you. Missing details could mean the difference between getting to Canada and getting a blue jumpsuit in the federal prison.”

“You mean insurance,” Spencer replied quietly. He pursed his lips in a terse smile. “You’re not the only con in this bar.”

“I’ve got a loose tongue and seventeen friends in my purse,” Liz agreed. “Do your part, I’ll do mine, and we’ll get along just fine, Mr. Rollins.”

Seventeen friends. Seventeen bullets in a magazine.

_“She’s armed,”_ Rossi warned. _“Do we make a move?”_

“No worries,” Spencer replied. Over his comm, he heard Emily tell people to hold. “Do you have the passport?”

“Do you have your friend?”

_“Get ready to make a move,”_ Emily instructed.

But Spencer tapped his fingers on the counter. “No. But I can take you to him.”

_“What the hell?”_ Matt muttered.

“Backup wasn’t part of the deal,” Spencer said carefully.

_“Oh, shit,”_ Kevin exclaimed, _“Are there mob bosses in that bar?”_

 _“We had it cleared,”_ Rossi argued worriedly.

_“Plainclothes, do you copy?”_ Emily asked. No response. _“Agents Patterson, Myles, Quinn, Tevin, Lee? Do you copy?”_

“You’re right,” Liz replied smoothly, “it wasn’t.” She reached forward, tucking a piece of Spencer’s hair behind his ear, and smoothly snatched his earpiece in the process. “I do my research, Dr. Reid. And I don’t like being taken for an idiot.” She turned to the bartender. “Do you?”

“No, ma’am,” the bartender replied smoothly, brushing his jacket aside to reveal a holstered gun. “I certainly do not.”

“Seventeen friends,” Spencer murmured, without breaking eye contact.

“I don’t get my hands dirty,” Liz replied, turning in a small circle to reveal she was unarmed.

“Of course you don’t,” Spencer replied, standing up so that they were eye-to-eye. “How did you do it, then? Thirty victims?”

“It was a lot more than thirty,” Liz insisted, sounding offended. She extended her hand. “Come with me and no one gets hurt.”

Rossi started to stand up, and so did Matt, but two men at their own table stood up as well, and the former returned to their seats.

Meanwhile, Emily was panicking. “Where is everyone?” she demanded. “I thought we had that whole bar searched and cleared.”

“She must’ve got there first,” Kevin replied weakly. “I can’t get through to plainclothes. It looks like Rossi and Matt are the only ones left in the bar.”

_“Clear them out,”_ Spencer said over the comms. _“I’m going to go with her.”_

 _“_ You’re staying exactly where you are,” Emily snapped.

“He can’t hear us,” Kevin reminded her quietly. “There’s nothing we can do except listen.”

Emily bit back a curse. “Rossi and Simmons, how’s it looking?”

_“Not good,”_ Rossi replied, his voice tight. _“Looks like everyone’s been cleared out. This is her joint.”_

“Her _joint?”_ Emily scoffed. “That was the only bar _not_ in her possession!”

 _“Apparently not,”_ Matt replied.

In the bar, Spencer took a step to the side, holding his hands up. “Where are we going?”

“That is yet to be disclosed,” Liz replied, holding out her hand. “With me. Or all of your friends die.”

“Reid,” Rossi started to say, but Spencer flashed him a single glance, and he quieted.

Turning back to Liz, Spencer swallowed, trying to quell the anxiety in his stomach. “Let’s go.”

Liz nodded, took his hand, and turned to face the bar. “No one is to follow us,” she announced. “I have more than seventeen friends in this city, and if the NYPD and the FBI are stupid enough to try a visual, that would be very unfortunate, wouldn’t it?”

_“We can’t let her do this,”_ Matt hissed.

After a moment’s hesitation, Emily finally said, _“Pull back.”_

“You can go,” Spencer tried, “and none of us are going to follow you.”

But Liz tightened the grip on his wrist. “Too little, too late, Dr. Reid. Insurance, remember? You have a lot of information for me.”

_“Are we going to do this?”_ Rossi demanded.

Emily sighed. _“We can try to get a sniper on the vehicle, but it’s going to be hard.”_

After a moment of tense silence, Spencer nodded. Liz led him out the back door, and with a final glance at the security camera, Spencer was gone.

Not that Emily saw it. As soon as the door closed, the visual feed cut out.

Something still felt wrong about everything as Spencer made his way into the back of the van—something other than the fact that he was being abducted. He could see Liz glancing at him out of the corner of her eye as they turned left down a back alley and moved briskly to her car.

The curiosity didn’t last long.

It hit when Spencer and Liz were about thirty meters from the car: a missed step sent Spencer stumbling to the side and Liz putting her hands on his shoulders, pressing him against the brick wall of the alley.

“Don’t,” Liz said, as Spencer reached for his gun. She slid it easily from his holster and tucked it into her own back pocket. “You know by now I’m never alone.”

“The bartender,” Spencer mumbled to himself, swiping his tongue over his lips. “What did you do?”

“Nothing permanent,” Liz assured him, sliding an arm around his shoulders. “Do me a favor and take the last few steps to the car, please?”

No going back now. What would happen if Spencer tried one last act of defiance?

A man leaning against the corner of the alley pushed away the thought for him.

“No one gets hurt,” Spencer ordered, but it came out as, “None gessurt.”

“Of course,” Liz assured him. “I keep my end of the deal, remember?”

Spencer tried to respond, but he took a step forward and his vision dissolved into stars. Vaguely, he was aware of another set of arms wrapping around his waist and pushing him roughly into the passenger seat of the car, stopping without closing the door.

A hand on his chin again, tilting his head to the side, slapping his cheek twice. Spencer forced his eyes open for a moment before the person who had manhandled him into the car grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and slammed his head onto the dashboard.

* * *

The first thing he was aware of was the pain.

Spencer woke to a throbbing headache and aching muscles; the last of whatever drug he had been given seeping out of his body slowly. His head was tilted over the back of a chair; he raised it up and promptly tipped forward, but didn’t hit the ground. Instead he was suspended in the air by a strap around his chest, by a pair of cuffs that held his hands behind his back.

The situation was a little too familiar with his liking.

Running his tongue over his teeth, Spencer tasted blood—or maybe that was coming from the wound on the side of his head. He didn’t remember being hit that hard, but then again, he didn’t even know the time. Hopefully not much had passed.

“You’re awake,” a man announced from where he was standing at the door—of a room? A chamber? The walls were concrete.

“I noticed,” Spencer mumbled, immediately regretting it as the man gripped his hair and pulled his head over the back of the chair again. “Where’s Liz?”

“You have something for us,” the man stated coldly.

“What?”

“You know.”

“I really don’t.” Spencer took a deep breath and tried to ignore the nausea churning his stomach. “What do you need?”

“We need you.”

Spencer and the man turned to the side to see Liz entering the room with her arms behind her back.

“What do I have?” Spencer asked.

In response, Liz held out a computer.

“That’s not a good idea,” Spencer said. “I’m, um, not good with technology.”

“Someone shut down our database,” Liz explained, “and he got away.”

Spencer raised an eyebrow. “The officer who kissed you?”

“The consultant I stabbed,” Liz corrected him. “As soon as I’m through with you, I’m going to finish the job. Now I’ve got a lot of anger, you’ve got an IQ of 187, and both of us are going to suffer if the ring isn’t upheld.”

“So you’re not the boss after all,” Spencer realized. “Who’s really in charge?” But then he frowned. “Or, no. ‘Both of us will suffer’...that’s not about me. So you have a partner.” Liz’s mouth pinched tighter. “Is he in the room?”

Liz didn’t respond. In fact, she took a step back.

Spencer was a little slow to the realization that this was to make room for her friend, who promptly brought his knee into Spencer’s stomach and his fist into his nose.

* * *

He woke to water being thrown in his face.

Spencer could tell before opening his eyes that his ribs were cracked, if not broken, and his head injury had increased in severity, thanks to the right hook he had taken moments ago.

“Up here, Dr. Reid,” Liz ordered sharply, snapping her fingers in front of his face. “This will be a lot easier if you cooperate.”

“Better just to kill me,” Spencer replied with a grimace. His eyes danced around his surroundings: the man who hit him was gone, replaced by a newer guard. Likely, any traffickers who had been in the bar were still there or incarcerated, so who did that leave?

This was a basement—a cellar, probably. Who knows how many people waited upstairs? Liz had shown how many people she had under her control.

Not to mention the mystery partner.

Spencer was jerked out of his head when the man in the corner moved forward and unrolled a long bandage, tying it around his eyes. Something soft—another cloth—fixed itself over his face.

Rude awakening still in mind, Spencer knew what came next.

Water filled his mouth and gushed down his throat in a sudden torrent, and Spencer jerked in his seat. Another bucket quickly followed.

_Two minutes._

Two minutes until his body gave in to the suffocation. He could asphyxiate in moments, which was why torturers usually—

The cloth was removed from his face, giving him a chance to breathe. Spencer jerked and spluttered, coughing harshly, but only a few minutes went by before Liz strode forward to take his face in her hands.

“Cooperate,” she growled.

“No,” Spencer said.

The cloth in his mouth was all too-reminiscent of prison.

_Don’t panic. Don’t pass out. Don’t panic. Don’t pass out._

It was hard not to when his nose filled with water. Spencer choked, and the movement sent a shooting pain up his back as his ribs were roughly jostled with sickening clicking noises.

_Don’t panic. Don’t pass out. Don’t panic. Don’t pass out._

Again, the cloth was removed, and again, Liz attempted to force Spencer to cooperate, and again, he said no, and again, the water clogged his airways.

_Don’t panic. Don’t pass out._

Eventually, he failed both tasks.

* * *

Hands on his cheeks—benevolent this time—moving through his hair, peeling off the blindfold that had matted to his skin with water and blood. Wiping the flow from his nose. He could feel eyes searching his face without opening his own.

A second pair of hands worked behind him; undoing the restraints. The hands on his face moved gently, palpating his jaw, then his head, lingering over the lacerations. His arms came free from the handcuffs and swung limp at his sides; he didn’t have the energy to lift them and instead focused all his efforts on breathing through the pain in his ribs.

Speaking of his ribs, the second pair of hands untied the brace across his chest.

Weightlessness.

Until there were under his armpits, holding him upright, cradling his head to rest on their shoulder. A ringing in his ears that blocked out muffled voices. The arms moved to brace him by his abdomen and the tinnitus cleared to formulate three clear words.

“That’s not good.”

His ribs shifted. The resounding coughs brought up both water and something else.

Spencer didn’t stick around long enough to find out what it was.

* * *

When Spencer woke up the first time, he didn’t see much.

He felt someone take his hand and squeeze it slightly. He heard a voice tell him about brick and mortar, that this place was built in 1932, that the foundation had kept over the years, serving as a bullet factory in the Second World War. Then the voice told him to sleep.

So he did.

The voices brought him back the second time. His hands were cold without the comforting weight from earlier, and he ran his fingers absently across the covers of whatever he was laying on, searching for them.

“Spencer?” Spencer kept his eyes close. “You with me?”

Not Liz. Not the man who hit him.

“Rossi?” he mumbled.

“Yeah. Wanna wake up for me?”

“M’up,” Spencer replied, bringing a hand up to rub his eyes open. Moving his head seemed more difficult a task than he expected; as soon as he did, a sharp pain rocketed through his temples, throbbing in tandem with a pull just under his arm.

“Keep still,” Rossi urged quietly, taking his hand—the hands from the basement, the hands that caught him around the chest and shrugged a coat over his shoulders, tussling his hair dry. “You’re in the hospital. You’ve got a pretty nasty concussion and a few broken ribs, but surgery went well. You’re gonna be fine.”

“Surgery?” Spencer wondered. “Di’I puncture a lung?”

“Yeah. You’ve got a tube in your chest, but they’re gonna take it out in a little bit.”

“How long’ve I been here?”

“Couple days,” Rossi said. “You were in pretty bad shape when we got to you.” A small smile spread across his face as he tossed a pamphlet onto the bed. “JJ came in to read you the hospital history brochure while you were in-and-out.”

Spencer smiled, trying to recall the words. “I think I remember.” But then the things he learned came back as well, and he shot open his eyes. “Liz!” He pushed himself on his elbows, ignoring the pain it brought. “She’s got a partner—she—and you need to get a protective detail on—there was a guy—”

“Whoa, whoa,” Rossi muttered quickly, putting firm hands on either shoulder, “take it easy, kid. It’s all under control.”

“You don’t understand—where’s Liz?” No response. “Rossi, where did she go? She’s...?”

“She got away,” Rossi admitted slowly.

_“What?_ Rossi, she—”

“She tortured you for ten hours,” Rossi said firmly, “and you need rest. Lay down.”

With a defeated groan, Spencer relaxed. A quick glance revealed the tug in his side coming from a tube running from his chest to a machine. The monitor displaying his pulse settled down.

Rossi waited for his vitals to calm before getting up himself. “I’m going to head home; it’s 3 AM. You can help us catch her when you’re back on your feet. In the meantime…try not to make getting kidnapped a habit, will you?”

“M’kay,” Spencer murmured with a small smile. “Is my bag—?”

Rossi leaned over to give his cheek an affectionate pat before easing around the bed. “Bag’s in that chair with your clothes and your gun. Get some sleep. Luke will probably be here when you wake up. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Okay. Nice work, Spencer. You did good.”

“Thank you.”

With a final smile, Rossi left the hospital room, and Spencer settled back into the covers with a heavy sigh. The clock ticked quietly, like white noise.

Maybe he slept; maybe he just drifted in a light, medicated haze—but either way, Spencer woke at around five o’clock with the chest tube gone and two realizations.

One: someone was in his room.

Two: it was not someone he knew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoops


	28. Ok, Who Had Natural Disasters on Their 2020 Bingo Card?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A thunderstorm wipes out the power in NYC, but the weather isn’t the only thing Malcolm has to worry about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: extreme weather / power outage

Malcolm was never one to be afraid of the dark, but that was about to change.

A fork of lightning stabbed the sky, trailing out with long, blinding fingers before plunging the city back into darkness. The thunderstorm had been wreaking havoc on New York City for the past hour, showing no signs of slowing, and Malcolm couldn’t help but feel a twinge of unease as the dim light over his kitchen countertop flickered, then died.

Nothing like spending a night alone in a loft with no power, right?

Small problem: Malcolm wasn’t alone.

Sunshine had been twittering anxiously for the past half hour; now, her alarm intensified as, as if on cue, the door swung open with a large _BANG!_ , sending the sounds of the storm into the loft.

Malcolm jumped from his seat and pressed his back to the wall, a fork in one hand. Measly weapon, but it was all he had in the moment; keeping knives in the open hadn’t gone well the last time he had someone over. “Hello?”

No answer; just the wind.

Creeping forward, Malcolm held the fork in front of him like a sword, moving to stand by the stairs where the noise had come from. Daring to peek out from the wall, he was surprised to find...nothing. There was no one at the door.

So why was Sunshine still chirping?

Malcolm turned around to promptly get the answer in the form of a gun to the face.

At least, he was pretty sure it was a gun. It felt like one—maybe that wasn’t a good thing; being aware of what a gun to the face felt like, but for now, it had to do. Malcolm hit the ground hard and winced, bringing his hand up to stop a steady flow of blood that had begun to seep from his mouth. 

He ran his tongue over his teeth—all still there—and concluded that the weapon had probably hit his nose instead. A quick check confirmed that the metallic taste was coming from one nostril—not too bad, right? Malcolm wiped his upper lip and glanced up—

The intruder was gone.

“Hello?” Malcolm tried again, feeling around for his fork—gone, too. Rising to his feet, he swept his gaze around the apartment, trying to pinpoint where the figure had gone.

Footsteps rippled and echoed off the walls, like someone was running incredibly fast and incredibly lightly. Malcolm ducked against the wall and allowed himself a couple deep breaths and a moment to go over his situation.

“He’s got a gun,” he reminded himself, “and you don’t. Why don’t you have a gun? Oh, right,”—he allowed himself a second to wipe his nose; still bleeding—“you gave it up. Because you got fired. Not a smart move, looking back on it. Let’s see…”

His eyes scanned the loft, where the intruder remained invisible, and after a moment, his gaze landed on the display case. As in, the display case of weapons.

Jogging over to the case, Malcolm discovered a sticky note against the side of the glass—something he had probably done in an insomniated stupor. He ducked around the edge to read it.

_Break in case of emergency._

You know, it was silly at the time, but now, Malcolm was quite grateful for it.

A particularly close step sent Malcolm back into action; searching for the right weapon to use—a weapon that should have been a phone dialing 911, but he figured that the phones would be down as well.

His fingers closed around the handle of a small axe—a plumb half hatchet, but now wasn’t the time to be specific, because an axe was an axe, and an axe could give him some leverage. Hopefully. Maybe not, actually, because the blade was dull.

“Note to self,” he muttered, running a finger over the not-so-sharp curve, “Add _polish weapons_ to my self-care list. That is, if I survive,” he added bitterly. “Am I really going to do this?”

Yes, he was.

Malcolm moved forward.

“Whoever’s there,” Malcolm called, holding the hatchet up to his shoulder like a baseball bat, “put the gun down. We can talk about this.” More steps, coming closer. “Okay, I’ll take that as a no. Well, then, I’m warning you: I’m a...two-time silver-medal axe-thrower. And I have an axe right now. So...yeah,” he finished weakly.

He turned a corner, towards the noise, and two things entered his mind.

One: He left the weapons case open.

Two: Two silvers medals in axe throwing did absolutely nothing when his face proceeded to connect with said weapons of previous realization.

He knew the butt of an old Flintlock pistol almost as well as he knew the butt of a handgun. Malcolm was starting to get the feeling that his familiarity with such sensations was not very healthy, even more so the fact that he was more focused on the weapon being used to crack his nose than the cracking of his nose itself.

Take that, Dr. Whitly. Maybe they weren’t so similar after all.

On the downside, Malcolm’s nose was most positively broken, if it wasn’t before. Bummer, but there wasn’t much time to dwell on it, because the use of a gun moved to the use of a fist diving towards his neck.

Not good.

Malcolm let out a teakettle-esque squeak of surprise before curling into himself, his air supply very efficiently cut off. The pistol made its way into his forehead, but before the trigger could be pulled, Malcolm maintained just enough of his bearings to grab the barrel and twist it to the side.

_BANG!_

His hand burned from the now-smoking metal, but adrenaline gave Malcolm enough of a painkiller to pull the gun away and hit his attacker in the face—an eye for an eye. Nose for a nose?

Either way, the intruder successfully blinded with pain, Malcolm rolled to the side and snagged a barstool, bringing it down hard. 

Silence.

Malcolm checked a pulse and found one, thankfully—he didn’t need to be accused of a third murder—and managed to locate a pair of handcuffs in his nightstand drawer.

Again, creepy out of context, but useful in the moment.

The table lamp sputtered back to life. Malcolm blinked against the sudden light in his eyes, but without wasting another moment, he grabbed his phone from the bed and dialed—unfortunately, not 911, but baby steps were still progress.

_“Bright, you good? I’m getting word of a gunshot near your apartment.”_

“More like in my apartment,” Malcolm admitted, fixing the intruder’s wrists to the headboard.

Gil cursed. _“On my way. What do you need?”_

“Backup,” Malcolm replied, then, weaker, he added, “and maybe an ambulance, should things go sideways.”

_“What do you mean? What’s happening?”_

“Well, I’ve incapacitated my assailant and handcuffed him to my bed, but I want information.”

_“What?”_ Gil exclaimed. _“Bright, no. You stay where you are and keep a gun on him at all times when he wakes up. Do not jeopardize the situation.”_

“I’m not!” Malcolm insisted, proceeding to jeopardize the situation by taking a seat with his axe in one hand and the gun lying haphazardly in his lap. “I’m just...waiting patiently for you to come. And in the meantime, John Doe and I could, um, get to know each other. Cool?”

_“Not cool, Bright!”_ Gil scoffed.

“I have a right to know,” Malcolm pointed out. “He’s the one that came into _my_ place.”

_“He doesn’t sound like a guy in the mood for answering questions,”_ Gil retorted. _“Do. Not. Move.”_ And after a beat, he noted, _“You sound a little stuffy.”_

“Bit of a virus,” Malcolm lied. “The cold’s not good for my sinuses.”

Gil wasn’t convinced. _“Sinuses, huh? I didn’t know you got nosebleeds in the winter.”_

“To be honest, I wasn’t really expecting it, either.”

_“I’ll take you to urgent care in the morning, if you want.”_

“No, I’m fine. Actually, I’m gonna go take a Mucinex; brew some tea. Maybe take a nap.”

_“Bright—”_

Malcolm hung up the phone, and glanced back up to face his assailant, who was quite reasonably pissed.

“Get me,” he snarled, “the _fuck_ out of here.”

“No,” Malcolm replied, “I don’t think I will.” He leaned in close. “Who are you, and why did you try to kill me?”

“Man, my name is Percy,” the intruder growled, “I don’t mean any trouble.”

“The gun suggests otherwise. Did someone send you?”

“What? No! I’m just looking for a little bit of money,” Percy insisted. “The gun’s just a ploy, y’know? To scare you.”

“Why attack me at night? Why not wait for me to leave?”

“I dunno, I dunno,” Percy wailed, squirming in his restraints. “Let me go, man. I need some money for my dealer.”

“No.”

“The police are gonna be all over both our asses if they see this,” Percy begged. “I’m not sober and you’re out of your fucking mind with that axe!”

_“You’re_ the one that broke in,” Malcolm shot back, giving the hatchet a flourish. “And I have a right to bear arms, just like you do.”

“Yeah? Twenty thousand torture devices is your idea of ‘bearing arms’?”

“Thirty medieval weapons,” Malcolm corrected him.

Percy blanched. “Look, I’m not judging, but you got either got a weird-ass kink or I broke into some psycho—”

_“I’m not a psychopath!”_ Malcolm shouted abruptly, sounding very much like a psychopath as he got to his feet and held out the pistol threateningly; the hatchet at his side. He swallowed. “Um, sorry.”

“I’m so high right now,” Percy whispered, squeezing his eyes shut. “Oh, God, I knew that was a bad batch. Shit, shit, shit.”

“Be quiet,” Malcolm ordered. Percy closed his mouth. “Now tell me why you’re really here.”

A curious moment: Percy’s entire demeanor hardened, and his expression closed off entirely. A smirk spread across his face, but it was shaky, like he was trying to seem hard. “You’re gonna have to kill me.”

Red and blue lights dappled the windows, casting lights and shadows onto the walls. Neither man moved.

“Actually,” Malcolm said slowly, “I don’t think I’ll have to.”

Percy shifted. “What do you mean?”

Malcolm held up the pistol and inspected it. Very slowly, he brought it until the barrel rested point-blank on Percy’s forehead.

“You’re not getting anything,” Percy hissed.

Malcolm pulled back the hammer.

Percy swallowed, squirming a little bit. Obviously, he was not keen to get familiar with a gunshot wound. “Do it and my blood is on your hands.”

“What are you?” Malcolm demanded, pressing the barrel forward. “A hitman? Who do you work for?”

“You’re never gonna know,” Percy spat, but that was a lie, too, because as soon as Malcolm put his finger on the trigger, he panicked. “Hold up, man!”

_“NPYD!”_ someone bellowed from outside.

Malcolm didn’t respond. Percy bit his lip.

“Tell me now, before both of us get in trouble,” Malcolm insisted. Her reached forward to grasp Percy’s chin. “Look. Are you willing to risk this?”

After a moment, Percy finally exclaimed, writhing in his restraints, “Okay, okay! Put the gun down! I don’t know her name!”

Malcolm paused. “Who?” He dropped his hand.

“Like I said,” Percy panted, “I don’t know her name, but she takes over, like, _all_ the alleys in Manhattan. Whole gang workin’ on smuggling things across the borders.”

“Why does she want me?”

_“Malcolm Bright, are you inside?”_

“I dunno, man,” Percy whined, “I’m just doin’ a job. I need some money and a place to live. I got muscle, y’know, so she wants me for the dirty work. I was gonna take you to her place, to work on, like, turning the force around. She says you got connections to some pretty bad guys.”

“She’s not wrong,” Malcolm reasoned.

“Whatever, man,” Percy groaned, “Just let me go to jail and get me some protection, please!”

Malcolm hesitated. “Tell me where to find her.”

“I was gonna drop you off. Word is that the feds are gonna come in and she wants security before the whole ring implodes.”

“And what can I do?”

Percy hesitated. “There’s a computer. She needs someone like you to make sure everything goes where it should go. The product, I mean. Word has it you used to be a fed, right?”

“Maybe.”

“So she thinks you want revenge. To work for her.” Percy squeezed his eyes shut. “That’s all I know, so don’t shoot me, please!”

A smile cracked Malcolm’s face, and he couldn’t bite back a chuckle as he explained, “I wasn’t going to.”

Percy peeked open his eyes. “What?”

_“Percy,”_ Malcolm said in a tone that was the equivalent of _duh, it was obvious, you idiot._ He cocked open the chamber of the pistol and showed him the hollow interior. “There were no bullets in here. Do you know how long it takes to load one of these?”

After a very pregnant pause, Percy hissed, “You son of a _bitch.”_

“My mother would agree,” Malcolm replied smoothly, sitting back in his chair. The officers entered the room, and he gave them a casual wave. “Looks like the cavalry’s here.”

Gil kept his weapon on Percy, but his stance weakened after seeing the situation. “Everything okay?”

“Fine,” Malcolm replied, tossing him the handcuff key. “Like I said, everything went well.” He relaxed back in his barstool.

Glaring suspiciously, Gil unlocked Percy and hauled him to his feet, passing him off to another officer before standing in front of Malcolm with his hands on his hips. “What are you not telling me?”

“Nothing,” Malcolm replied airily, without glancing up from the table.

Gil waited.

“It’s a trafficking ring,” Malcolm admitted. “And...they wanted me to work for them.”

“What were you gonna do?”

“That remains to be seen,” Malcolm explained, a mysterious smile tugging at his lips. He brushed himself off before daring to ask, carefully, “Do you think you could help me schedule a date?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took many turns as I was writing. I would like you to know that originally I had planned for Percy to realize his wrongs and turn his life around, become an electrician while pursuing his career in the arts or something. But alas. XD


	29. Such Wow. Very Normal. Many Oops.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s a boy or a man or a devil in our cabin. I hit him hard and hid him in the shed in the graveyard and hopefully no one finds out he’s there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: hunting season
> 
> Spoilers for s02e15 “Revelations”

_HONOR THY FATHER. HONOR THY FATHER. HONOR THY FATHER. HONOR THY FATHER. HONOR THY FATHER. HONOR THY FATHER. HONOR THY FATHER. HONOR THY FATHER. HONOR THY FATHER. HONOR THY FATHER. HONOR THY FATHER. HONOR THY FATHER. HONOR THY FATHER. HONOR THY FATHER. HONOR THY FATHER. HONOR THY FATHER. HONOR THY FATHER. HONOR THY FATHER._

_It’s hunting season again and that means Bible study until even the stars decide to go to sleep. He says I gotta do it myself, gotta be a man—a smart man, but more, because a brain does no one any good when it’s blown outta your skull. He says they don’t get what we do; only HE understands. I guess he’s right._

_One, two, three; Father, Son, Spirit. There’ve been three so far and it feels so wrong. It’s a distraction from the drugs—how long has it been since my last hit? The last time I called, it took around 4 minutes—round it to 3, he says. Better safe than sorry. I asked him why we should be afraid of the police if we’re doing the right thing; he says that the Devil is rising. I don’t get it, because I met a cop and she was nice to me. Maybe not all of them, I say. He says lust is a sin._

_Gotta stay clean gotta keep away from MARSHALL. He doesn’t know just yet but it’s only a matter of time. He always knows he always finds me. Honor thy father honor thy father have to HONOR THY FATHER. He says fathers and sons have an unbreakable relationship and he’s right. Just don’t know how long I can keep this up. The end is nigh. Whose end, anyway?_

_There’s a boy or a man or a devil in our cabin. I hit him hard and hid him in the shed in the graveyard and hopefully no one finds out he’s there. He’s asleep and I hope I didn’t hurt him. There’s blood on his head, I don’t want him to die. He looks scared. I am, too._

_He says his name is Spencer and Raphael says he can read men’s minds. It doesn’t sound evil, in fact, he’s almost my age and so nice to me. I haven’t met many people face-to-face in a while because the Devil has infected so many, but perhaps he has been spared. I asked Raphael and he said no. No one is left, and Spencer has to confess. He looks scared but strong and He says that the devil lies, everyone lies. Mama lied, they all like to add, but Mama lied because of me. This is all because of me._

_Spencer is asleep more than he is awake as the hours pass. How long has it been, only a day? He’s in a lot of pain and cruelty is a sin, but Charles says sinners deserve cruelty. Love thy neighbor. Love thyself. I don’t love myself for this but I give him some of the mix if only to ease his suffering. I don’t think he’s a devil. I don’t want to THINK he’s a devil. Raphael says we’re all sinners, so what makes some of us more qualified to dole out punishment to the other? Is it wrong? I asked HIM and got no response._

_He almost died and I saved him. Don’t know what more there is to do. Raphael called it a resurrection; Charles called it holding on to the ghost. I gave him some food and water that’s not so good but should hold him for now. At least he isn’t so sick anymore. What do I do, LORD GOD? He’s got a weak vessel and I’m almost sure we have the wrong man. What will happen if we smite the wrong man? I don’t think I can handle seeing the Devil inside him again. He’s just so scared and he calls for his mom in his sleep._

_Almost out of Dilaudid; got two vials in my pants. No one knows but Spencer, and even then, he’s too out of it to remember. But he does remember. He remembers everything I say to him and everything in the Bible. I see no malice in his eyes but how can I know for sure? Maybe we can run away someday. He’s got a bad father, too. Forgive me for saying that. I’m just not good at this. I don’t want to be weak but it’s hard not to when you can’t see anything but headstones and fear for miles._

_I don’t care if Spencer or his army are sinners anymore; I just want to get away from here. Forgive me forgive me forgive me forgive me. I am tempted easily and it’s getting harder and harder to resist. He is telling himself he isn’t weak, so I blessed him as best I could, and told him he wasn’t while he slept. Does touching him make me a Devil, too?_

_I want to leave so badly and Spencer does too. It’s hard to talk while Charles is in the room. I feel dirty. I feel sinful. I AM sinful. I am consorting with demons and it will do me no good in the end, but Spencer is nice and gave me some of his water. Told me to keep my drugs. He’s scared of the drugs and I don’t know why, but we’re at the point where he doesn’t resist when I stick him. Maybe he can convert in time._

_They’re gonna kill him soon, I overheard them speaking. LORD GOD, why? I am sure now we have the wrong man. I want to get out of here so bad, I want to see the planets and the moon from somewhere other than a graveyard. Mama told me about the man in the moon but Mama was a whore so maybe she was lying. But Mama had a good heart, I remember. Where is she now? Is she in heaven or hell? And where will I go? Starting to wonder whether or not it’s better to die here or there, away or in the shed. Cutting it close. Spencer is, too._

_I’m not weak. I’m not weak. I’m not weak. I’m not weak. LORD GOD have mercy on me._

_Maybe if I get out of here, I can see Mama again. We’ll watch the stars, and when they go to sleep, it won’t be so lonely._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the short length, but on the plus side, tomorrow’s chapter is LONG. Like, over 5k-long. I hope you’re excited for it, because I definitely am! It’s that continuation of “If You Thought the Head Trauma Was Bad...” so get ready! :D


	30. I Think I Need a Doctor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm gets attacked by the latest suspect, but unfortunately for him, she isn’t finished after he’s in the hospital—and even more, he isn’t the only one she’s after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompts: emergency room / reluctant bedrest
> 
> A continuation of “If You Thought the Head Trauma Was Bad...” and (loosely) “Ok, Who Put Natural Disasters on Their 2020 Bingo Card?”, but could be standalone if you want.

Being the son of a serial killer, Malcolm did not have much experience with dating; however, he was not completely terrible. In fact, he felt his kissing was excellent, considering Ainsley had forced him to practice on oranges when they were teenagers.

“You’re so high right now,” JT stated, upon hearing this.

Malcolm just smirked, leaning backwards in his bed. “I’m serious, Jarvis. I thought I had everything under control.”

“Besides the fact that she had a knife.”

“Besides the fact that she had a knife.” Malcolm licked his lips, rolling his head to the side. “Where’d Gil go?”

“He’s at the station, trying to find your date,” JT explained for the third time that morning. “You know, the one who stabbed you?”

“Stabbing,” Malcolm slurred, reaching to wrap his fingers around the plastic cup on his tray, “is a, um...a sign of piquerism. You know what piquerism is?” Without waiting for JT to reply, he took a long, obnoxious slurp of pineapple juice. “A sexual attraction to impalement.”

“Cool,” JT said flatly, pulling out his phone.

Malcolm leaned over. “Whassat?”

“Texting Dani,” JT replied. “She might have a lead, thanks to the feds.”

“M’kay. Let’s go, then.”

JT glanced up in confusion, just in time to see Malcolm tug the bedsheets off and swing his legs over the side of the bed. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“To help,” Malcolm said happily, gripping the IV pole for support. “Get my shoes?”

“Your shoes are at the dry cleaner’s,” JT replied, crossing the room, “and you’re not going anywhere.”

Malcolm pouted. “Why?”

“Hate to break it to you, man, but you’re not exactly following the dress code for crime fighting.” JT grabbed him by the shoulders and shoved him a little too roughly backwards. “Get your ass in bed.”

Distracted easily, Malcolm’s fingers brushed his bandaged stomach, and he palpated the area absentmindedly. “To be honest, that date went better than any of the ones I’ve ever been on.” He let his head flop back onto the pillow. “Did you get her yet?”

“Nope. Just told you, they might have a lead, but the attempt was blitzed while you went into surgery. Remember? Now two of our guys are in the hospital and there’s no sign of the woman. One of them is you.”

Malcolm shrugged. “That’s a bummer.”

“Yep. You’ve been telling me that all week.”

Awkward silence filled the air afterwards, permeated by only the steady _tick-tick_ of the clock and the rapid _click-click_ of JT’s phone. Malcolm let his gaze wander upwards, then to the side, then to his feet, then to JT, and he smiled. “Hi.”

“Hey there,” JT replied, without glancing up.

“Her breath tasted like peppermint,” Malcolm recalled, not exactly talking to anyone in particular. “She had a bracelet on her left wrist and a very striking shade of lipstick. Do I still have some?”

“Have some what?” JT prompted, brow furrowed.

“Lipstick,” Malcolm blubbered on, rubbing at his mouth. “She got lipstick on me. Peppermint. Did I say her breath tasted like peppermint? And she was wearing contacts. Blue. She’s a lot more paranoid than we thought. Warm hands, too.”

The clock struck four. JT sighed and tucked his phone in his pocket, announcing, “We got a lead. She’s still in the city.”

“Woo-hoo,” Malcolm mumbled, already half asleep. “What gave her away?”

“A note.” JT stepped forward and held up the screen for him to see. “It says, _Finish what you started.”_

“Could be talkin’ bout that hack I ran,” Malcolm thought aloud, tripping over his words a little. “I shut down her program, but only temporarily. You think the FBI has any tech people that can help? I kinda didn’t know what I was doing.”

“They’ve got an agent running some stuff now,” JT confirmed, getting to his feet. “I’ma head over, see what’s going on. You good to stay here by yourself?”

“One hundred percent,” Malcolm replied with a weak thumbs up. He waved. “Bye.”

With an uncomfortable wave back, JT was out the door.

A few minutes went by. Malcolm burrowed himself deeper under the hospital bed sheets, hoping to maybe get some sleep—an option, thanks to the painkillers—but a shrill ringing from the Patient’s Belongings bag at his side announced something new.

Malcolm swung himself over the side of the bed, swatting the plastic bag blindly until he located the source of the noise: his phone, pinging off the hook with text messages. He squinted at the words on his screen, and the grogginess dissipated immediately.

_Ready or not._

_Finish what you started._

_Ready or not._

_Ready or not._

_They’ll never see us coming._

_You don’t get off that easily._

“That’s not good,” Malcolm remarked.

* * *

“They’re taunting us,” one of the FBI agents announced as she walked into the bullpen, where Gil was standing in front of a whiteboard with his hands on his hips. “I got a message, too.”

JT pulled out his phone. “Mine says, _Finish what you started.”_

“So does mine,” the agent agreed worriedly. She extended her hand out, smiling tiredly. “I don’t think we’ve met; things have been pretty hectic. SSA Emily Prentiss.”

“JT Tarmel,” JT replied, taking her hand. “So, what’s with the sudden texts?”

“My guess is, she’s panicking,” another agent announced, pinning a grainy security camera image against the whiteboard. He took a step back and crossed his arms. “We got her cornered; she’s running out of time.”

“It might not be that easy,” Gil warned him. “She’s got two of us down. We know she lashes out when she gets angry; what if this is a threat?”

An orchestra of _ping! ping!_ echoed off the walls of the precinct, sending everyone looking down at their phones. Prentiss hit a few buttons on hers and placed it in the center of the table. “Garcia, what do you have for us?”

_“It looks like your woman has sent out a mass text with some clever but simple hacking,”_ a woman buzzed over the line. _“It’s supposed to look skillful and threatening, but this is very good for us, because the code she used can be backhacked. From there, I can at least find an IP address or a wireless network the phone is attached to.”_

“We got her,” Dani concluded with a nod.

_“Bingo for Bronx! The woman is right. Are you ready for it, Em?”_

Prentiss grinned. “You mean that address?”

_“Exactamundo!”_ A few keys clicked, but then, Garcia paused. _“Oh, no. This is bad.”_

“What’s bad?” The agent at the whiteboard demanded.

Garcia didn’t seem to hear him. _“Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh, dear, oh, dear,”_ she muttered, the key-clicking becoming more frantic. _“I have to call—okay, here, I’m patching in Rossi.”_

Moments later, a new voice joined the call: _“Hey, Penelope, I’m heading back now.”_

“Are you at the hospital?” Emily demanded.

_“Just left,”_ Rossi replied. _“Kid’s a little woozy, but the doc said he’s gonna be fine. The nurses are gonna get rid of the chest tube now.”_

“We need to get over there now,” Emily replied hurriedly, without wasting a second to throw on her coat. “Garcia gave us an address for the UNSUB, Elizabeth Terry; we think she’s in the hospital now.”

On Rossi’s end, the car tires screeched; the telltale sign of a panicked U-turn. The people in the precinct jolted to life as well, hurrying to make radio calls and gather their things before bursting into the parking lot.

“This is Alvez with the BAU,” the whiteboard agent shouted into his phone. “I need Swedish General on lockdown, we got potential suspects inside. I also need protective detail immediately on an agent there; he’s a patient, name is SSA Dr. Spencer Reid.”

“Malcolm Bright,” Gil added loudly, falling into step. “I got a guy in there, too.”

“Shit. Can you get into contact with him?”

“To be honest, he probably already figured it out by now,” Gil admitted worriedly, flinging open the door of one of the station wagons. “And he’s not good at staying put. Your agent’s the one from the bar?”

Luke slid into the passenger seat. “Yeah. He’s not in a shape to go against anyone.”

“Well, if your tech analyst was right, he’s getting text messages, too. Let’s hope we can get them secured before Terry seeks them out herself.” Gil buckled his seatbelt and put the car into drive. “God knows what Bright’s doing right now. Your guy doesn’t have a history of going off the rails, does he?”

Luke glanced down at his lap. “Yeah...about that.”

* * *

The plastic bag at the head of the bed was vibrating like crazy, but the man whose stomach it rested on was oblivious to it all; deep in what Malcolm was slightly hoping to be a coma, because things were about to get very distressing for both of them should he wake up.

He had managed to get dressed as he walked down the unnervingly empty hospital hallways and lost his tie in the process, but a shirt and pants were good enough for now. Malcolm clutched the new scar at his side and tried to ignore the throbbing pain that was starting to intensify, now that he had gotten rid of the morphine drip.

“This ward is on lockdown; everyone stay in your rooms; nurses, head to your stations, we got a Code Orange!”

Someone was calling through the door, and Malcolm locked it, leaning against the wall as he did so. In his pocket, his phone buzzed with more calls, but it was a little late to explain to Gil what was going on. Likely, he had figured it out.

Moving stealthily, Malcolm made sure the door was locked completely before skirting around to the side of the patient’s bed, ducking down so that he was out of sight from the door window. The phone in the plastic bag was giving off annoying beeps every two seconds, so he reached inside and tried to silence it.

Almost as soon as he did, someone grabbed his wrist from inside the bag, slammed it against the gurney rails, and wrapped it in place with the tube of an unused IV line. Moments later, Malcolm felt the cold barrel of a gun press into his forehead.

“Don’t move,” the not-so-comatose man ordered breathlessly.

“This took a turn,” Malcolm remarked. 

Lifting his head slowly, he found himself face-to-face with a man who looked to be around his age, maybe a little older. A neat line of stitches stood out on his hairline, and if Malcolm could guess, he worked in law enforcement, but to be fair, the gun was a pretty dead giveaway.

As was the FBI badge sticking out from the plastic bag.

“I think you’re making a mistake,” Malcolm tried.

“Put your hand on your head,” the agent said, his voice weaker. “You’re going to stand against the wall, and I’m going to search you. Do exactly as I say.”

“Seriously,” Malcolm insisted, “I’m not who you think I am.” The tube around his wrist tightened. “Ow, okay! I’m standing up. But I don’t have any weapons.” He got to his feet as the bindings slackened, pressing his stomach to the wall and wincing at the movement. Behind him, he heard the agent clamber out of bed.

This said agent promptly proceeded to trip over his feet and land on the tile, sending the IV pole rolling across the room and a bottle of pills scattering.

Malcolm stayed facing forward. “Um, you okay?” No response. “Hello?”

“Hands up and stay where you are,” the agent groaned from the floor.

“Alright,” Malcolm replied slowly, doing exactly the opposite and moving around the side of the bed to see what was happening. “Oh. You don’t look so good.” He got a cocked gun to the face in response and took a few steps back. “Okay, okay. Backing up now. But I’m not a threat, Agent.”

“Doctor,” the agent replied automatically. “M’names’s Dr. Sp—hm.” He squinted in the light, as if he was finally seeing Malcolm, then groaned loudly and let his arm fall to the side. “You’re Malcolm Bright.”

“You got there eventually,” Malcolm encouraged, bending down to offer a hand. His side throbbed. “And you are?”

“Spencer Reid. BAU.” Spencer didn’t take his hand. “I’m so sorry.”

Malcolm pulled him to a sitting position, despite this. “It’s fine. You obviously have a concussion; you’re gonna be confused.” Then he frowned. “Are you working the trafficking case?”

“Mhm. But we almost got her, don’ worry.”

“About that,” Malcolm said weakly, holding out his phone. Spencer read the text messages and let out a loud, frustrated exhale. “Yep. Looks like we gotta sign out AMA. Fine by you?”

“Very fine. Let’s go.”

Around ten minutes later, Spencer was able to lead Malcolm out the door and towards the fire escape stairwell, moving down. Neither of them were in any position to be moving, and frankly, Spencer looked like he was one step from keeling over, but nonetheless, they picked their way down the stairs and stopped for a moment to rest.

“What happened to you?” Malcolm asked.

“S’nothing,” Spencer mumbled, using the wall to support himself to the floor. “Just a concussion, like you said. Some bruises. I know you got stabbed.”

“Word travels fast,” Malcolm agreed, examining the stitches in his side. “I’ve been here for around a week, so I’m almost healed. Perfectly capable of escaping a hospital with who knows how many mob bosses.”

“Not really.” Spencer brushed his hair out of his eyes, wincing when his fingers came into contact with his head. He dragged his arm up as if searching for a watch, then, finding none, he peered at Malcolm’s phone to check the time. “She should be here by now, if she sticks to her pattern.”

As if on cue, the phone rang.

_Blocked Caller ID._

“Here we go,” Malcolm murmured, hitting the call button and putting the phone on speaker.

_“You need to let go of this man immediately,”_ a woman snarled.

“Oh,” Malcolm said, surprised, “you’re not Elizabeth.”

* * *

The hospital was very much shut down when the SUVs pulled into the parking lot. A steady trickle of patients moved out of the building, ushered by nurses, and Emily sent Rossi, Tara, and a few of Gil’s people on them immediately, combing through interviews and clearing out anyone who wasn’t suspicious.

“Reid’s not answering his calls,” Matt informed them worriedly, dialing a few buttons on his phone. “You think he’s still asleep?”

“With all this?” Emily scoffed. “Hell no.” She called someone of her own. “I need a trace.”

_“Actually, this might be more important,”_ Garcia exclaimed worriedly. _“I got into the security feed for the hospital, and I found Reid, but he’s not in his room.”_

“What? So where is he?”

_“He’s—oh, my God, he’s with a man, and the man has a gun. Like, a gun. In his hand. With our boy wonder. Our boy wonder who is wonderfully and curiously donning a very tacky pair of maternity ward PJs.”_

“Liz did say she had more than seventeen friends,” Matt reminded them. “We saw how quickly she was able to overpower us at the bar.”

Emily nodded, her expression grim. “Who knows how many people are posing as nurses and staff in the hospital? Garcia,” she added to the phone, “does this UNSUB have a phone on him, and can we set up a line of communication?”

_“Yes, he does. Calling him now. Garcia out!”_

Emily waited until the phone stopped ringing, her patience wearing thin. “You need to let go of this man immediately,” she declared.

_“Oh,”_ the man on the other side said, _“you’re not Elizabeth.”_

“My name is Emily Prentiss with the FBI. You have one of our agents.”

_“Spencer, right? Yeah, he’s here.”_

“Where is Liz? We can work this out.”

_“I was kind of wondering that myself.”_

“This doesn’t make any sense,” Matt muttered. “On one hand, we have a nonchalant UNSUB who clearly knows who’s with him, and who we are...but he sounds like he doesn’t know what he’s doing. Maybe Liz is hiring people as she goes. She feels cornered and she’s trying to get as many people on her side as she can.”

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

Hearing Gil’s voice, Emily spun around. “Our agent’s been taken hostage. Have you made contact with your own?”

“No, _that,”_ Gil explained, pointing at the phone, “is Malcolm Bright.” He sighed loudly, running a hand over his face. “Could I, um, speak to him? Please?”

After exchanging a look with Matt, Emily finally said, “Sorry. Here you go.”

“Thank you.” Gil flashed them a tight smile before taking a few steps away, holding the phone close to his ear before snapping, “What in the _hell_ are you doing?”

_“Working the case!”_ Malcolm chirped. _“Elizabeth is somewhere in here.”_

 _“We think she’s here to kill us and finish moving the product,”_ Spencer chimed in. Gil recognized his voice from when the BAU had first come into the precinct—and, unfortunately, when they found him tied to a chair in Terry’s basement. _“The place is on lockdown, but it’s only a matter of time.”_

“Yeah, we know,” Gil sighed. “Bright, you’re in a lot of trouble.”

_“I didn’t exactly have many options.”_

“Staying in your room was one of them!”

_“These people can overman you in moments,”_ Spencer argued for him.

“Okay. You need to find a way to get out of the hospital,” Gil ordered, cutting to the chase. “Where are you right now?”

_“Fire escape,”_ Malcolm answered. _“We don’t think she’s—”_

A gunshot cut off his words.

* * *

“Get up, get up, get up,” Malcolm said quickly, hauling Spencer to his feet as a gunshot split the air just below them. “Move! We have to go to the roof.”

Spencer didn’t make any noise that he knew what was being said to him; however, he let himself be nudged up the stairs, breaths getting louder as they continued to climb. The concrete walls echoed their footsteps; with a wince, Malcolm tried to tread lightly, but Spencer was doing no such thing.

The burst of air that greeted them upon stumbling onto a small balcony was gratifying. Almost immediately, Spencer sank to his knees with a groan, his head in his hands, and Malcolm held the phone back to his mouth. “Gil? Still there?”

_“What the hell just happened?”_ Gil demanded.

Malcolm swallowed. “Well, she’s definitely here. I think we’re on the fifth floor; some sort of large balcony. I’ve locked the door where we came from, but at this rate, she’s on us.”

_“And the agent? Did either of you get hurt?”_

“We’re both fine,” Malcolm announced brightly, turning to Spencer. “Right?”

Spencer just nodded, swaying on his knees with his hands over his ears.

“Right,” Malcolm echoed, turning back to look over the edge of the landing. “So, um, anything new?”

_“We’re checking the cams now.”_ After an inaudible curse, Gil added, _“but you need to find somewhere to hide safely. I’m with the feds and they’re seriously pissed.”_

“What, do they still have a grudge?” The joke didn’t land, and Malcolm gulped nervously. “Tell them Spencer’s okay. He’s here with me right now.”

_“Yeah? A lot’s happened since you checked into the hospital, Bright. The FBI launched a meeting with Terry and it didn’t go well. The agent with you got the short end of the stick.”_

“I know. He’s concussed, but he’s fine. Probably.”

_“Yeah, add torture to the list. We found him with four broken ribs and secondary drowning. Now do you see the problem?”_

The words sank in. “In my defense,” Malcolm said helplessly, “he never told me that part.”

“Sorry,” Spencer mumbled, staggering to his feet. Malcolm grabbed him by the arm before he fell, but Spencer shrugged it off, electing to take a fistful of his shirt instead.

Malcolm turned back to the phone. “At least I called for backup this time!” he informed Gil.

Gil sighed. _“Close enough. What about you? How’s the stitches?”_

“Intact.”

_“Hold up, we got a visual.”_ A few voices overlapped each other before Gil spoke again, his voice laced with worry. _“Do you have a gun?”_

“What?”

_“Dr. Reid’s gun, kid. Do. You. Have. It.”_

“He does. Why?”

_“She’s coming towards you.”_

Malcolm thought about this. “That’s not good.”

_“No, it really isn’t. I need you and Reid to stay where you are and keep your gun on the door. We got a team on their way, but Terry might get to you before they do. If she does, you do not shoot. You’re going to have to stall her. She won’t be alone. I don’t want to risk a standoff.”_

“We can talk her down,” Spencer mumbled quietly. “Both of us have a rapport.”

“So did the thirty-two men that went missing,” Malcolm pointed out.

_“We’re coming to you, kid,”_ Gil called, his voice tight and desperate. _“Stay where you are and hang on until we get there. Okay? I promise, we are coming.”_

“I know you are,” Malcolm replied, trying to keep the tremor out of his hand, even though Gil couldn’t see it. “Um, Gil?”

_“Yeah?”_

“Wish me luck. Um...thank you.”

Gil just sighed. _“Anything, kid.”_

Malcolm ended the call before anything more could be said, turning back to Spencer. “You got your gun? I’m not a good marksman, but from where we’re standing, I think I’ve got a better shot than you.”

Spencer nodded weakly, tugging the revolver from his pants pocket. Malcolm took it from his hands and checked that the chamber was loaded before holding it up to the door.

“Ready?” he asked, trying to keep his hands from shaking.

The grip on his shirt sleeve vanished as Spencer hit the ground with a solid _oof;_ the air punched out of his lungs.

“I guess not.”

* * *

“I’m getting more text messages,” Dani called, hurrying towards them. “She’s given us her location. I can see her moving through a GPS.”

“She’s giving up,” Rossi commented, scrolling through the map on her phone. “This is her endgame.”

“We all know what happens when Terry is cornered,” JJ murmured anxiously, shaking her head. “How long until the tactical team gets to the fifth floor?”

“We’ve got SWAT clearing the floors right now,” Emily replied, fixing in an earpiece. “Spence and Bright are on the balcony, and Bright’s armed. The cameras are shaky; Garcia said Terry’s trying to cut the feeds, like she did in the bar.”

“Well, let’s hope we get there before Terry does,” Dani sighed, one hand rubbing absentmindedly at the badge on her waist. “At this rate, her moves are becoming more and more unpredictable.”

“Spence is good,” JJ assured her. “I’ve seen him talk the guns out of serial killers.”

“Let’s hope he’s good enough for this,” Dani replied darkly, wringing her hands. “Bright has a way with words for sure, but…” she shook her head. “I just hope it doesn’t get to that.”

As if on cue, Rossi held up his phone. “Guys.”

* * *

Someone was shaking him.

Spencer cracked open his eyes before closing them immediately, the sunlight too bright for his liking. The ground underneath him consisted of gravel and rock—not very comfortable, but good enough for now. His entire body was pounding.

“Spencer?”

The hands around his collar gave another light shake, sending a shooting pain up his abdomen. Spencer swatted weakly at his offender, but his hands didn’t want to cooperate.

“You have to get up.”

“Why?” Spencer rasped, daring to open his eyes again. The figure—his brain was struggling to connect name to face—blocked the sun, making it easier to see. Spencer blinked a few times before running his hand along his side, feeling the new scar just under his armpit. “Wha’ppened?”

“We’re on the balcony, remember?” the man pressed, his brow furrowed. “Terry’s after us. Can you sit up?”

“Mhm.” Spencer pushed himself onto his elbows, then the stranger—the name was still stuck—helped him to a sitting position. “Bright.”

“That’s me,” Malcolm affirmed. “You might want to sit this one out.”

The memories came flooding back, and Spencer fumbled for his gun. “Liz is here.”

As if on cue, the door leading to the fire escape swung open.

“Hey, Elizabeth,” Malcolm said weakly, holding his hands up, “it’s been a minute.”

Terry was flanked by two men—men that Spencer recognized as the ones from the basement. Bringing his gun up, he grabbed onto Malcolm, trying to force himself into a shaky stance. “You don’t have to do this.”

“You’re coming with us,” Terry hissed. “I’ve got men all over this place.”

“You don’t plan on getting out, do you?” Malcolm asked. “The FBI, the NYPD...you’ve really made a name for yourself.”

“Which wasn’t the point,” Spencer added, leaning on him for support. “Your only goal is to move the product. Like you said, you specialize in making sure cases don’t become cases.”

“The only recognition you want is from your coworkers,” Malcolm agreed.

“We’re also not coming with you,” Spencer finished.

Terry just smirked. “You’re not coming with us _alive,_ Dr. Reid. I know by now how loyal you are. But,” she added thoughtfully, “I still would like to pick your brain, if you know what I mean. I could get a lot for it.”

“I thought you were human traffickers,” Malcolm said, surprised.

“Technically, yes,” Terry replied smoothly.

Meanwhile, Spencer was struggling to bring everyone into focus. A few stories down, he heard gunfire, and the noise made his ears ring. Now felt like a very good time to give in to the nausea building up in his stomach. Or maybe he could just collapse; that was an option.

“FBI! Guns down!”

Terry’s comrades turned around, firing madly. One of them went down, but the other managed to put bullets in all three agents that breached the roof. Spencer didn’t recognize them, but maybe his head was making it hard to remember.

Suddenly, he was being pulled sideways and down, tugged along by Malcolm, scurrying behind a concrete bench. A few bullets hit the ground at their feet, showering pebbles and gravel, and eventually, the two were left on the other side of the roof, staring down at the street below, where SUVs and flashing lights signaled a number of emergency departments.

“How far of a drop do you think that is?” Malcolm asked with a grimace.

“Um...fifty feet,” Spencer replied, biting his lip. Off Malcolm’s surprised expression, he explained, “I heard one of the nurses say so earlier.”

“You’re lying,” Malcolm stated.

Spencer swallowed. “About the height or the nurse?” Malcolm waited. “Well, both. It’s sixty-eight feet and my friend read me the architecture brochure yesterday. I was trying to be optimistic,” he added weakly.

Malcolm looked like he wanted to ask more, but a barely-averted bullet made the decision for him. Scrambling to get away, he broke off in one direction, and Spencer followed, feeling uncharacteristically mellow about it all. It was more tiring than anything, the running, and he hoped Emily and the team would get there in time.

“Don’t move!”

Spencer turned around to come face-to-face with one of Terry’s men.

He stared for a moment: at his eyes; his shoes; the rifle aimed at his stomach.

_Gun,_ his mind supplied sluggishly.

Something happened; Spencer didn’t know. A few blinks announced a ringing in his ears and his knees on the ground. A few feet away was his smoking gun, next to the other man, who was lying down with a bullet straight through his head. Did he shoot him? Where was Malcolm? And why had the gunfire stopped? Someone was speaking, but they were distant, and to be honest, Spencer was more focused on the blood welling up in the back of his throat. This excitement probably wasn’t good for his ribs. Or his head. Where did everyone go?

Deciding to find out for himself, Spencer scrambled to his feet and immediately regretted it as a rush of vertigo brought him stumbling backwards—towards the end of the balcony, where the sixty-eight-foot drop lurked just past the safety railing.

He titled over the edge before he could get his footing.

* * *

After the gunfire split the concrete, Malcolm jerked one way, while Spencer trailed behind. At some point, he had let go of his arm, but before Malcolm could try and grab him, Elizabeth was there, holding a gun at his head.

“I think we should reschedule our date,” Malcolm blurted out helplessly.

“You’re a good kisser,” Elizabeth said.

Oh. So he was right. “I had practice,” Malcolm admitted. The stitches in his side tugged painfully. “Though I do have other plans tonight.”

“Pity,” Elizabeth sighed, clicking her tongue. “That tongue of yours won’t sell for much, you know.”

“Unfortunately, my stomach is pretty closed up right now, so the visiting hours to see how my organs are faring have closed down.”

“We can fix that.”

“I’d rather you not.”

Terry tightened her hold on the gun, putting her finger on the trigger. There was something unnerving about seeing her with a gun—and not just because of the fact that she was about to shoot him. To Malcolm, it was interesting that she even owned a gun.

“Prior to this,” he started to say, “you’ve never been armed. It’s always someone else doing the work for you—poisoning, torturing, shooting. The only reason you stabbed me was because I had taken down your network. Crime of passion, crime of rage. So...why now?” He didn’t wait for a response. “Where’d everyone go, Elizabeth?” Elizabeth didn’t respond. Malcolm couldn’t help but smile. “Did they surrender? That’s got to hurt. I guess your men weren’t completely loyal after all.”

“My men are currently hunting down your friend so we can cut his head open,” Elizabeth snapped, though her voice shook. “The shootout will give me enough time to escape.”

“But you can’t,” Malcolm pointed out, taking a few steps to the side. “This place is surrounded. I think you’ve been bluffing, trying to convince us that all the city is under your control. But really? There are only thirty or so people in your palm, and even then, they only work for as long as they have to. How much do you pay them? Is that why your trafficking ring has gone on for so long—because you’re constantly losing the money you gain in order to pay off debts?”

“Shut up,” Elizabeth growled, taking a step forward.

“You don’t have to hurt people,” Malcolm tried, moving to the side. They circled each other, eyes locked. “Your skill, your negotiation...I’m willing to bet that the FBI would want to make a deal. You can use that power for good.”

Elizabeth snorted. “This is too rich. You’re trying to be a hero, aren’t you?”

“The truth? I’m just trying to get you on the wrong side of the roof.”

As soon as he said it, Elizabeth fired, but it was too late; Malcolm had already scurried to the side and reached to make a grab for her gun. Pinning one of her wrists to the railing, he slapped the weapon to the ground and pressed himself against Elizabeth until she was leaning over the edge of the railing.

Malcolm kept his hands on Elizabeth as he kicked the gun out of the way. “It’s over.”

Elizabeth was grinning at something over his shoulder; Malcolm didn’t have to guess that it was the agents Gil had promised. “No.”

“You don’t have to do this, Elizabeth,” one of the agents called—the one who had yelled at him on the phone earlier. “You can surrender now, and I promise, there is a place for you. Bright’s right—you can help us.”

“You’re lying,” Elizabeth hissed.

“No, I’m not. Even in prison, you could be an asset.”

“What, as a snitch?” Elizabeth snorted in amusement. “You think I want to spend my life in a _cage,_ giving you worthless information? The rest of my life?” She swallowed hard, licking her lips. “I don’t think so.”

“Don’t do it!” one of the other agents shouted, but it was too late.

Malcolm stumbled backwards as Elizabeth’s knee slammed into his chest. Landing hard, he gasped for air as pain rocketed up his side, stealing his breath and thrumming the new scar in his side. Someone grabbed him by the shoulders, softening his fall. 

“Wait!”

Everyone glanced up in time to see Elizabeth stretch her arms out and fall backwards over the edge of the railing.

* * *

Matt grabbed Malcolm by the shoulders as he flew backwards with a groan, shielding him from the chaos. A quick flip of his shirt revealed no damage, but Malcolm was struggling to breathe, and in the distance, Emily and the others were still shouting at Elizabeth to wait.

She didn’t.

Malcolm lifted his head as Matt did, just as Elizabeth threw herself backwards over the side of the building. Emily hurried forward, but it was too late.

On the ground, there was a loud smash, sending off two car alarms nd a myriad of screams. On the roof, Matt helped Malcolm to his feet, steadying him. “You good?”

Malcolm nodded, still trying to catch his breath. “She didn’t get me. It’s fine.”

“I’m gonna go back and clear the scene,” Emily sighed, rubbing her eyes in exhaustion. “Bright, you’re with me. I got your team standing by. Simmons, can you get Spencer?” Matt nodded. “Thanks.”

Emily helped Bright down the stairs, calling to a few other officers as they went. Matt put his hands on his hips, swept his gaze across the roof, and promptly said to himself, “Oh, fuck.”

Because Spencer was nowhere to be seen.

He grabbed Luke just as the latter was about to leave with Emily, hissing, “Where’s Reid?”

A gunshot.

“Oh, fuck,” Luke stated, voicing everyone’s thoughts.

Racing towards the noise, Matt and Luke skirted the small concrete block that led to the fire escape that blocked the other side of the roof, towards the edge, where Spencer was slouched on his knees with his back against the railing, looking thoroughly spooked. In front of him, a bulky man dropped his rifle and slumped back, blood pulsing from a clean shot in his forehead.

“Reid!” Luke shouted.

Spencer didn’t seem to hear him. He pushed himself to his feet, swaying dangerously, and Matt realized what was about to happen just as the gun slipped from his hand. He hurried to cross the distance between them.

Luke grabbed a fistful of Spencer’s shirt just as he tilted backwards, towards the drop, and pulled him to his chest. Spencer fell heavily onto him, arms flailing for something to grab, and they tumbled down in a heap. Matt kept one hand on Spencer’s shoulder and lifted his shirt up with the other, wincing at the bruises.

“Reid, you good?” Luke called, bringing himself to his knees. “Sorry about that.”

Spencer blinked through glassy eyes, trying to process the words. After a slow moment, he finally said, “I’m putting in for hazard pay.”

* * *

The next morning, Spencer woke up with a chest tube back in and two realizations.

One: there was someone in his room.

Two: this time, he knew who it was.

Malcolm was slumped haphazardly on a lounge chair placed in the corner of the room with his head tipped into his chest and his arms crossed loosely. He didn’t seem asleep, but he didn’t seem entirely awake either; twitching and mumbling things under his breath.

“Bright,” Spencer called hoarsely. He cleared his throat. “Malcolm.”

With a strangled, choking noise, Malcolm’s eyes flew open and he shot up in his seat, the words trailing off as he took in where he was. His eyes landed on Spencer and he gave him a small wave. “You’re awake.”

“How are you?” Spencer asked.

“Bruised,” Malcolm replied with a yawn. “But worse things have happened. How’s the head?”

Spencer thought about it. “Fuzzy,” he noted. “I, um—what happened? To Liz?”

“She jumped off the building,” Malcolm said, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “We arrested most of her associates, but a few of your teammates were hit. They’re all fine, though—took the bullets to the vest.”

“That’s good.” Spencer let his head fall back. “So, it’s done, now?”

“Well, your friend isn’t happy with you.”

“Which one?”

“All of them,” Malcolm admitted. “Luckily, neither of us are fired, but that was the second time in my life the FBI has reprimanded me.”

“Special Agent Malcolm Bright,” Spencer said to himself, then frowned. “I remember you.”

“Small world.”

Spencer nodded, wincing as he did so. A minute passed before he spoke again, words slightly slurred. “Thank you. I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t shown up.”

Malcolm beamed at that. “You make for good backup.”

“No, I don’t.”

With an amused chuckle, Malcolm rummaged through the Patient’s Belongings bag before taking out Spencer’s phone. He placed it on the table. “Prentiss said you guys are heading back to Quantico as soon as you’re cleared to fly.”

“Thank God,” Spencer mumbled with a sigh. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I could use a vacation.” He cracked open an eye. “You could, too.”

“I might take you up on that,” Malcolm agreed.

A heavy silence hung in the air, until Spencer asked, “What were you dreaming about?”

A beat. “My father.”

“Dr. Martin Whitly.”

“That’s him.”

Spencer thought for a moment. “You’re not like him.”

“What made you think I was?” Malcolm asked. His hand shook slightly, and he tucked it in his pocket.

“I dunno,” Spencer replied tiredly, “just...you seem...I don’t know. It’s kind of hard to tell what you’re thinking, but, um...that carries a lot of guilt. Right?”

“It does,” Malcolm admitted softly.

“But you’re good,” Spencer went on, eyes fixed on the ceiling fan making lazy circles overhead. “You’re with the NYPD, you helped take down an organ trafficking ring. I think that’s more than enough to prove yourself.”

“I’m not proving myself to anyone,” Malcolm said quietly, dropping his gaze to the floor.

Spencer’s mouth twisted, and he furrowed his brow as if hesitating, before he pointed out, “Maybe yourself.”

Malcolm glanced up, thinking, before he exhaled through his nose, nostrils flaring. “Maybe.” He stood, hands still hidden. “It was nice working with you, Spencer.”

“Thanks again.”

Malcolm gave him a tight-lipped smile before fishing through his pockets and brandishing a cup of green Jell-O, placing it next to Spencer’s phone on the tray. “Want it? I had three already.”

Spencer reached for the cup happily. “That’s the best flavor.” Before he could take it, however, Malcolm placed his hand back on the lid and slid it away, his expression suddenly closed off.

When he spoke, his voice was taut and hard. “No, it isn’t.”

Spencer was confused. “Hm? What?”

Malcolm sat back down. “There’s something very important I need to tell you.” After a beat, he decided, “Let’s start with orange.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cue that meme of a man struggling to choose between two buttons; one of which says _Whump Malcolm_ and the other says _Whump Spencer_...it was a struggle, let me tell you xD


	31. Now Where Did That Come From?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the gunshot, nobody moved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: ignoring an injury
> 
> Spoilers for s08e12 “Zugzwang”

After the gunshot, nobody moved. 

Everyone was stock-still; frozen in place as silence took the place of the bang and coated the entire warehouse in a layer of shock. No one heard the dull thud of a body hitting the ground, then another, and even after Maeve and Diane crumpled in a heap of blood and bone, the only motion came from Spencer, who had flinched when the bullet rang out and since then stood in a half-crouch with his head ducked and his shoulders to his ears. His arm was gushing blood, but not even he took stock of it.

Eventually, Morgan put his gun back in its holster, and, one by one, everyone else followed suit. Slowly, the officers and agents creaked back to life, tested their limbs, and took a moment to close their eyes as if it could erase what they just saw.

“I’ll—” Rossi started to say, but his voice was hoarse, and he cleared his throat a little bit before speaking again to the officer standing by. “I’ll secure the scene. Could you call a…?”

He didn’t need to finish the sentence. Everyone flinched a little bit at the unspoken word.

JJ pressed a hand to her mouth and closed her eyes before murmuring a small, “I’ll help”, trailing behind Rossi and the officers as they filed out of the room. Rossi paused in front of Hotch with a knowing glance before disappearing into the hall.

Hotch himself was still paralyzed. Ears ringing slightly, he took a shaky step forward and looked at the ceiling lights, the other agents, the stone blood—anywhere but Maeve’s body—but eventually, he failed, and once he looked down, he couldn’t unsee it.

For a moment, it felt like he was back in his home, stumbling through the thick silence after Foyet had been killed, pausing in the doorway and dropping to his knees in front of Haley’s body, which was posed in a way too similar to how Maeve had just fallen. Blinking away the memory, Hotch took a deep breath before exchanging a glance with Morgan and Blake—all too uneasy to move, but not just because of the corpses.

Spencer was completely silent. Eyes still fixed on the scene, he lowered himself to a kneel, then a sitting position, until he was criss-cross on the cement with his head tipped into his chest and his arms hugging his torso. The side of his shirt was soaked and stained crimson; he wiped his bloody hand on his pants before returning to the awkward hug he was giving himself. Hotch stopped walking towards him, not knowing whether or not it was best to leave him be or take him away.

The coroner and his team stopped a few meters away, looking uncertain. Hotch gave them a helpless shrug, and after a moment of silent decision-making, the team quickly and carefully placed Diane into one of the body bags, transporting her first onto a gurney, then out the door, where a truck was waiting. Two of the coroners waited for a signal.

“Just a moment,” Alex said quietly, taking a few steps forward with a hand up. She took a seat next to Spencer and let her fingers flutter over the still-gushing wound in his shoulder before applying pressure.

Spencer didn’t react. He just stared.

“They have to,” Alex murmured.

Still, no response. Alex took a pair of latex gloves from her pocket and slipped them on before returning to press down on Spencer’s bullet wound. In the distance, Hotch heard Morgan radio for a medic.

“I’m sorry,” Alex tried again, wrapping her other arm around Spencer’s shoulders. “We have to. Spencer?”

Spencer’s body shook a little bit, like the arm on his shoulders was impossibly heavy. A minute went by, and the trembling turned to violent tremors, rocketing up his torso and out his throat, making his breaths sound like vibrations. Alex tucked him into her chest and squeezed tight, waiting a few minutes before gently ushering him to his feet.

Big mistake.

Morgan realized what was going to happen in a millisecond, rushing forward just before Spencer choked out a sob and turned around to lash out in blind panic. Morgan caught his good arm just before he was able to strike and grabbed him by the shirt, pulling him into something that was half an embrace and half a restraint.

Spencer writhed, frantic and panicked. “Get off me!”

“We gotta go,” Morgan replied quietly, keeping his hold.

Against his shoulder, Spencer shook his head rapidly. “Please, please. Stop it. Get off.”

“You’re bleeding,” Morgan said, his stance unshifting and his voice unfluctuating. “We gotta take you to the medics, kid. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t,” Spencer sobbed, voice cracking on the single syllable. “Don’t make me.”

“I’m coming with you. Please, you’re bleeding a lot.”

_“Don’t,”_ Spencer whispered again, but his voice was weaker, and soon enough, he stopped struggling. Morgan squeezed him tighter, one hand on the bullet wound and the other holding him tight.

“Don’t let me,” Spencer went on, “I can’t—” His voice broke, and he settled on shaking his head, tears running down his face.

Hotch frowned for a moment, confused, before his eyes wandered back down to Maeve’s body, and he understood.

Spencer didn’t want to see her.

The irony hurt, deep. Spencer had practically bounced on his toes as he left the bullpen that one night with a ribbon-adorned book in his hand, so eager to put a face to the name that had occupied his mind for so long. Hotch swallowed thickly, only able to watch as Morgan got the message and moved his hand to the back of Spencer’s his head, nudging it down into his chest.

“I don’t want to go,” Spencer breathed.

“We gotta stop this bleeding,” Morgan replied gently. “Medics are waiting downstairs, kid.”

“I don’t want it. I don’t want them. I don’t want—I just—please. I don’t want to go.”

Alex’s hands twitched at her sides, longing for something to hold. She made work of peeling the bloodsoaked gloves away and setting them in a small bag one of the coroners had on him, tucking them in her pockets and watching Maeve’s body be taken away.

“I’ll lead the medics upstairs,” she decided, almost as if she was speaking to herself.

Hotch gave her a nod, and she returned the gesture, stepping out of the room with a shaky breath. Moments later, Maeve was gone, too.

The room was plunged back into silence.

“Wanna meet them downstairs?” Morgan asked quietly.

Spencer shrugged, his face still hidden, his body still shaking, his shoulders slumped, and he swayed on his feet slightly. Morgan took a small step backwards, trying to coax his friend towards the door, but Spencer just leaned forward with his feet planted on the ground, and he gave up after a moment, settling to stay standing as they were.

“Can’t,” Spencer mumbled, breaking the silence.

“What did you say?”

“I can’t see it,” Spencer said.

Morgan sighed, electing to wrap his arms in a full, looser embrace now that he wasn’t actively trying to break free. “You can’t see it. I know.” He sighed. “I gotcha, kid. You’re…”

But he didn’t say _you’re okay._

“I’m here,” Morgan deciding on saying.

Spencer sagged slightly, knees threatening to give out, and Morgan tightened his grip as he lowered them both down. Hotch stayed standing, waving over a medic that had appeared at the door.

“Still with me?” Morgan called carefully. Spencer blinked, but didn’t respond. “Reid.”

“He’s probably in shock,” Hotch offered. “Or, um...disassociating.” His voice felt too loud and he cringed, pursing his lips as shut as they could.

The medic made quick work of Spencer’s arm, cutting the sleeve and moving lithely around, allowing Morgan to say where he was, and in a matter of minutes, the wound was wrapped tight. From what they could tell, the bullet hadn’t embedded in Spencer’s arm, and the only concerning thing was his lack of response.

“Does he need a hospital?” Hotch asked.

The medic looked conflicted. “I would recommend it,” she conceded, “to check for infection or blood vessel damage, and he’ll definitely need antibiotics, but right now…” She shrugged helplessly. “My guess is that he’s not willing to move.”

“Is he alright?”

“He should be fine. Blood sugar’s kind of low, and he’s incredibly dehydrated, but I’ll give you something for that. Just to...sorry.“ She regained her composure. “You could drive him to the hospital yourself. The wound isn’t as bad as it looks.”

“Thank you.”

The medic nodded before crouching back down next to Morgan and Spencer. Taking her time, she dug through her bag and brandished a small juice box, stabbing in the plastic straw and holding it out. On his end, Spencer just stared blankly at her hand, melting deeper and deeper into Morgan’s hold.

“Hey,” the medic said. Hotch was grateful for her keeping her voice down. “Want some juice? It’ll make you feel better.”

“I don’t want to feel better,” Spencer whimpered.

The medic swallowed, surprisingly emotional. “Your friends are going to take you to the hospital. In the meantime, I really want you to eat something.”

“Come on,” Morgan urged, rubbing a hand up and down his good shoulder, “for us?”

To everyone’s relief, Spencer took the box from her hands with a small, miserable sniff, and after a minute of sucking in juice with loud, shudders noises, Morgan hauled him to his feet and brought him into another hug.

“Better?” he asked, regretting it as soon as he said it. Spencer just shrugged. “Okay.”

The walk downstairs was slow and silent, and Hotch’s hands itched—at least in his case, he got to punch his anger out. It probably wouldn’t have done Spencer any good, however; he had settled into an awkward rhythm and kept his eyes on his feet, tripping over each other even with Morgan’s support.

Outside, the murmuring of police and press alike settled into silence. Hotch was grateful for the nighttime; there were less nosy press officials and reporters, but even then, a few people lingered at the edges of the tape, looking a little too eager to get a statement.

“Want me to drive?” Rossi offered.

“I can,” Hotch replied. To Morgan, he said, “Go secure the scene. I got him.”

Morgan looked appalled. “Hotch, you don’t seriously—”

“I’ve got him,” Hotch repeated, keeping his voice quiet, but his tone ordered no argument. “Go secure the scene.”

Morgan looked like he wanted to argue, but after a moment, he gave a resolute nod. 

Spencer stood with his back to them, eyes fixed on the coroner’s truck and the covered bodies that were loaded inside. Hotch turned him away and kept one hand snaked around his waist as they headed towards the SUVs, and as they walked, Spencer started to shake again, but now it seemed as if it stemmed more from being overwhelmed as opposed to an adrenaline crash.

The car blocked out the noise, which both of them were grateful for. Looking completely sapped of energy, Spencer let himself slump against the side of the car with his head balanced precariously on the edge of the window, and Hotch pulled out of the scene without so much as twitching the corner of his mouth.

They drove to the ER without a word.

They went through reception without a word.

They sat through the tests without a word.

They signed the release form without a word.

They pulled out of the parking lot without a word.

Comfortable, easy, steady, thrumming, cracked silence.

Ten minutes on the road, Spencer started to hyperventilate.

With a queer sort of calm, Hotch wordlessly pulled the car over and put it into park on the edge of the deserted street before offering his hand. Spencer glanced down and took it, squeezing hard, and Hotch resolved to take his other hand and rest it on his shoulder.

“Look,” he said firmly.

Still gasping through the tears clogging his throat, Spencer looked up. Hotch didn’t say anything else, just stared, just settled his gaze on him, mouth lax and eyes intense, the weight of his hands comforting and the expression on his face unreadable, the position of his body all just there _,_ just _there._

_Just there._

_There._

_There._

Spencer relaxed with a shaky nod.

Hotch started up the car again, and they stayed in silence until the car rolled to a stop in front of the apartment.

No one moved.

“Do you need me to say?” Hotch asked gently. Spencer shook his head. “Are you sure?”

A little time went by before Spencer lifted his head from the window, blinking lethargically. He had stopped crying, but his face was raw and his eyes were red. Every part of him looked muted and washed out—not unlike his rescue from Tobias Hankel—and it made Hotch’s throat constrict.

“I don’t,” Spencer said, barely audible, “know what—” He swallowed, closing his eyes for a moment before cracking them back open. “I don’t know what to do.”

“You’re on leave,” Hotch said. “You take time off—as much time as you need. I can stay with you, I can stop by the house, I can do whatever you need. But you need to take care of yourself.”

The unspoken plea hung in the air.

_Do you have anything?_

_Will you take anything?_

_I don’t want to see you fade from us again._

Spencer sighed, dropping his head into his chest. “Okay.”

“I’m coming inside with you,” Hotch went on, raising his voice a little when Spencer opened his mouth to argue, “it’s non-negotiable. Just to the door, okay?”

After hesitating, Spencer nodded, body stiff. Hotch came around the side of the car to open the door for him; Spencer took a step out and promptly sat back down, squeezing his eyes against a wave of vertigo that threatened to pull him sideways. Hotch waited.

Spencer stood back up and turned down the wordless offer for support. Struggling with the one-handed effort of locating the right key, the two of them pushed past the mud room and stumbled up the stairs before stopping in front of the apartment room.

“I’ll be okay,” Spencer rasped.

Hotch frowned. “Are you sure you don’t—”

“Just,” Spencer interrupted, coughing a little bit, “I just really need to be alone. Please.”

Hotch pursed his lips. “Okay.”

He lingered a moment for leaving, unsure whether or not to offer a hug. He decided against it, and Spencer watched him go with such sad, miserable eyes that Hotch cursed a little bit for not doing anything—not making sure Spencer would be okay.

But it didn’t matter, because both of them knew he wouldn’t be.

The apartment door opened with a small creak and a sad shuffle. Spencer dropped his bag by his shoes before closing the door and sliding down until his knees were curled up against his chest. Exhaustion weighed heavy at his eyes; he let his head tip back and knock gently against the door.

Tucked underneath his jacket, hidden behind the sling used as a makeshift shield, was _The Narrative of John Smith._

Spencer let his fingers dust the cover, tracing the raised words, then flipped to the first chapter without pausing to read the inked words on the first title page. In fact, he didn’t read the words at all; his mouth moved from pure memory; not quite speaking but not quite silent, because his eyes ached too much to look at anything but darkness and his throat was too raw to do more than whisper.

His arm throbbed, too, and his head hurt even more, but there was no one there to fix it, and maybe that was for the best.

_“Gout or rheumatism, Doctor?” I asked._

_“A little bit of both,” said he._

In the distance, Hotch’s car disappeared into the night with a steady rumble that grew quieter, and quieter, until the noise faded away altogether. Spencer listened to him go and let the book slide off his lap and onto the floor with a small thump.

The words in his head fell flat, then dissolved completely, and all that remained was silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All aboard the pain train, woooo-wooooo!
> 
> And for those who are solely here for Criminal Minds...congrats!!! That concludes the Criminal Minds section of Whumptober!!!! The month ABSOLUTELY FLEW BY, and I’m super super thrilled with every fun prompt. Thanks for sticking with me. :)
> 
> And, speaking of Criminal Minds, I’ve got a project coming up for that—a really weird sort of case fic (if you could call it that, hehehe.) If you decide to read that when it comes out, I am eager to hear about it. As always, thanks for reading. It really makes me happy.
> 
> But, if you’re also here because of Prodigal Son, one day left!! I’ll try to make it spooky, or if not, at least a little weird. I hope you enjoy it. So, without further ado, here is my dramatic finale!
> 
> (...Tomorrow.)


	32. Today’s Special: Torture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He calls himself The Surgeon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: experiment
> 
> This one’s kind of graphic, gore-wise. Just a warning!

The first one was the brain.

With a father like his, anyone would. With a mother like his, no one would think about it. The lesser of two evils, he supposes.

He also supposes that next time, he would have used something sharper. It’s hard to crack a skull with a butter knife; the cold cement floor is home for four hours until he’s able to see the fleshy, pink mass of a mind filling a hollow scoop of bone. 

His sister would say it looks like a very large teacup, if his sister was still alive.

He doesn’t know why he keeps going after the blood stops flowing, but curiosity gets the better of him. He is disappointed to find, after spreading his father’s brains out on the basement floor, that there is nothing special about him; no reason to explain why he did the things he did.

A few more hours go by and he has mastered the anatomy of a criminal mind; laying the muscle out flat in lobes and quadrants, taking a marker and writing the names of the

_cerebellar cortex cerebellum fourth ventricle arbor vitae thalamus corpus callosum_

and anything else he can across his arms until his skin is inked with the bloody trophies that won’t be his for long—there are voices upstairs.

So he hides, in a small trunk near the wall, and decides that next time he should use poison.

_Holy shit, there’s a kid in the box._

_What the hell? Oh, fuck. Fucking—I’ll call the—_

_Yeah, yeah, go._

_What’s your name, kid? Wanna come out?_

The officer he thinks about poisoning gives him a sour candy before tucking his head into the side of a police car, asking a few more times what his name is and what happened.

_What did you do, kid? Why did you do it? You can trust me. I want to help._

One of the cops makes a joke about medical malpractice upon seeing his textbook-tattooed skin, so he gives the name Martin and he calls himself The Surgeon and says,

_I wanted to know why his brain worked the way it did._

* * *

The second one was the tongue.

No one wants to give a home to a psycho when he’s released at the age of twenty-one with a very good lawyer, so Martin tracks down a friend from school, says he needs a place to stay, and she wants something in return.

Her last name is Sanders.

She tells him a story about money and power, and he asks where the man who hurt her is, and she tells him, and they go. A classic night of passion, a classic romance gone wrong.

He’s smart this time, and laces their drinks, but even after they’re dead, Martin decides to pry open their mouths and measure the length of their tongues to see who had spun the longer yarn. Sanders had 2 more centimeters despite being the one who told the truth. 

That night, Martin decides he is the smartest person, the honest person, the only person in the room, but only two of these are true, because Martin also learns that everyone lies, which means he does, too.

He’d like to think he is an exception, but he knows, thanks to his father, that his brain looks like any other human’s.

Familiar faces everywhere. Flashing lights and sirens.

_Heard you were back, city boy._

_This is...what do you want to know? What is it that you want to do?_

_You can trust me,_

he adds again and again, 

_I want to help you, kid._

Martin just shrugs, climbing into the car for what he knows is for good with a very quiet,

_I’m scared of myself and I can’t ever stop._

The officer says, 

_Trust beats fear._

Somewhere inside the psychiatric facility, his family is born.

* * *

The third time was the heart.

Martin isn’t the only one in his room at Claremont Psychiatric Hospital for the Criminally Insane because he may have just finally made a friend, and his name is Mr. David, and he has a family, too.

_I got a cat._

Martin asks if he has a son as well.

_My cat’s name is Dani._

_Who is your son? Malcolm?_

Everyone lies—what is Mr. David’s first name, Martin wants to know, but all he gets is a _J_ from when he sneaks a glance at his briefcase. In the briefcase are books, and Mr. David reads them aloud, so maybe not everyone is so terrible. 

Still, Martin wants to know.

_He decided it was human hatred and not divine vengeance that had plunged him into this abyss._

Jason. James. John.

_He doomed these unknown men to every torment that his inflamed imagination could devise, while still considering that the most frightful were too mild and, above all, too brief for them._

Julian. Joseph. Jaxson.

_Torture was followed by death, and death brought, if not repose, at least an insensibility that resembled it._

Mr. David pauses in his reading and Martin smiles, because the silence means his son has come to visit. Maybe this time, he’ll have a new case. He loves family time, and Mr. David probably does, too. Perhaps Dani and Malcolm would be good friends.

_Malcolm...as in your son, Malcolm?_

Of course. His boy.

_Where is Malcolm?_

There it is, the door. It opens. His son.

_There’s no one there. No one is at the door. Remember?_

Malcolm gets scared sometimes. He hasn’t yet learned that trust beats fear. He hasn’t yet learned that The Surgeon is not one of the monsters keeping him awake at night. 

But it’s been ten minutes since the door opened, and there is still no third man in the room.

Where is his son?

_You don’t have a son._

_Malcolm._

So maybe Mr. David is like all the rest.

In seconds, Martin kills him with the book and takes out his heart with a loose piece of metal on the end of his tether, because he doesn’t understand what love is despite having Dani. The end of the case is too coated in blood and muscle to decipher what the _J_ stood for.

The hallway remains empty.

* * *

The fourth time was the charm.

Malcolm comes, sometimes, or sometimes, he chooses to stay hidden. Martin and The Surgeon are both sad to see him less and less, but they should have seen it coming. Maybe Malcolm was never really there to begin with—maybe part of him died with his father, on the concrete floor, all those years ago.

Martin isn’t particularly bothered by the whole thing. A nurse replaces Mr. David when Martin is allowed to see someone, and her name is Ainsley, and she is kind to him. He tells her about his son, and she listens with a daughterly smile.

The routine of his becomes clockwork. Ainsley slips him lollipops when she thinks no one is looking, and maybe Martin could use the sticks to break out one day, but he decides not to, because outside, there is nothing, and there is no one. 

At least in here, he doesn’t have to think about his father and Sanders and Mr. David and writing on his arms with a pen and hiding in a box until someone came to get him.

At least in here, Martin has one possible friend and the patch of light that hits his bed in the morning without failure in a perfect square.

So he throws away the lollipop sticks and stays in his new home, with the sunshine and the birdsong harmonizing on the senses as if they were one creature.

* * *

  
  


The fifth time was the truth.

The officer visits one day, and Martin doesn’t poison him like he wants to. He can’t, even though the officer says each time,

_Who is The Surgeon, Malcolm?_

_Martin was your father. He’s dead, remember?_

_You killed him. Like you killed your family, like you killed Eve Sanders and her boyfriend, Nick._

Martin only ever speaks when he asks when his son will come to visit, but the officer shakes his head, looking sad for reasons Martin should understand, but doesn’t. He wants to know why he did anything at all, and for some reason, he’s coming up empty.

Maybe he wasn’t the smartest person in the room after all, but then again, the runner up seems to have been lost forever. 

Unless he comes back. 

He wants Malcolm to come back, to help him explain, and maybe they could do that, together, because there is lots of time.

The officer explains it for him.

_You don’t have a son, kid. You never did._

_You and Malcolm?_

_You’re the same._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What the actual flip flop did I just write.
> 
> Aaaaaaaand that’s a wrap!! I hope you enjoyed that very VERY weird ending to Whumptober. It’s been crazy, and it went by so fast, but I’m really grateful to anyone who decided to read any of these, and any of you who had to listen to my snips—snips that probably sound like I lost my mind when taken out of context, to be honest.
> 
> I had loads of fun and I hope you did, too.
> 
> As always, thank you! :)


End file.
